The Dark Wanderer
by Onhiro
Summary: Finally the War of the Ring is over. Now, the story of Donovan and Elenloth is over. Through pain, death, and love they have travelled, and are finally justly rewarded...
1. Middle Earth!

CHAPTER ONE

It was dark inside the tent. A man sat behind a simple desk, studying the maps spread over the surface. Colonel lapels decorated his blouse collar. A big mug of extra strong coffee sat nearby, now cold. The man looked tired, but ready for anything. There was a flutter as the tent flaps opened and closed. The man looked up to see a soldier silently appraising him.

The trooper was dressed all in black, a balaclava scrunched down around his neck instead of covering his face, like usual. He had old and worn web gear carrying odd things, including a custom made bandolier, filled with fifty caliber rounds, attached to the pistol belt. Each round was different colored. The Colonel knew that the trooper also had an ass pack filled with magazines for the Barrette M-95 .50 caliber anti-material rifle strapped across his back. The weight never seemed to bother him.

"Scout, I need you to do another recon, in area thirty-four delta," the Colonel ordered, a cold sweat forming on his brow. The other man nodded before he spoke.

"Understood." Sharp canines flashed in the lantern light. The black eyes appraised the Colonel for another couple of seconds before the being left the tent. The Colonel shuddered. _Damn Vampires_, he thought. Those dead eyes always gave him the willies. _Oh, well. At least I never have to look on him again._ The Colonel returned to the maps.

Outside, the half-vampire paused in the misty night. So it would be now. He carefully drew his cowl over his face, wrapping the ragged remains of the cloak around him. He looked around, his eyes missing nothing in the night. His eyes flashed a startling gold before he moved on into the night. Less than ten minutes later, they had surrounded him.

The soldiers he had helped, his comrades, had now betrayed him. It had happened before, and would happen again. The other soldiers brought their rifles to their shoulders. The half-blood simply smiled when the first pulled the trigger. _Send me someplace I am needed, my lord, _he thought sadly.

When his eyes opened again, he was bathed in sunlight. "Ow," he stated, ignoring the lightheadedness he felt. He pulled up the balaclava, instantly feeling relief as the sun was no longer touching his skin. He checked his rifle, making sure that the scope wasn't broken from his falling on it.

Once he was sure nothing was damaged, he looked up and appraised his surroundings. He seemed to be in the middle of a town or village, and the architecture looked oddly familiar. He reached out with his heightened senses, searching for a heartbeat. There, to his left! He moved silently through the paths, watching the trees carefully, and feeling behind walls and doors. No one.

He neared the heart, preparing for anything. It was just behind closed and locked doors. But his own heart fell in disappointment. The heart barely reached his waist, and so was a child. But then he paused in the middle of turning away. The heart was beating too slow for a child!

_What is this, land of the midgets_? he asked himself skeptically. But the architecture around him appeared to big for that. He silently scaled the tree next to him, and jumped from it into another tree on the other side of the wall. He peered through the branches and saw a council of some sort surrounding a pedestal with a ring placed on it. Weird. Deja-vu. A man got up and approached the ring when a voice rent the air.

"**ASH NAZG DURBATULÛK, ASH NAZG GIMBATUL, ASH NAZG THRAKATULÛK AGH BURZUM-ISHI KRIMPATUL!"**

He recognized the words. From The Lord of the Rings. The black speech circling the One Ring. But what he did not recognize was the awesome need to rent, kill, and tear all that stood in his path. He barely suppressed it.

The figures below soon got into the argument as to who would bear the ring. The hobbit, Frodo son of Drogo, volunteered. So it was the hobbit Sam I noticed, and that's why the heart felt wrong. Gandalf the Grey, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Boromir son of Denethor, Legolas Greenleaf of the Mirkwood Elves, the dwarf Gimli son of Gloin. And the hobbits: Sam, Merry, and Pippin. He was viewing the Council, the one that decided the Fellowship. Interesting. It was not the first time he was transported off the Earth. Having to face the creatures from the movie Aliens was quite the shock.

The half-vampire was so engrossed in his thoughts he did not notice that Legolas suddenly tensed up.

Legolas Greenleaf was wondering why the threat of the Cursed Tongue was still lingering in the air when he realized with a shock that it was a new threat. His eyes scanned the trees around the Council, finally resting on a figure concealed in the branches. A figure all in black.

"Intruder!" he snapped, bringing his Mirkwood bow up faster than most could see. He quickly released an arrow, but to his dismay, the figure dropped, the arrow embedding in the tree behind him. The man rolled onto his feet after falling the fifteen feet to the ground with grace that surprised the elf. Legolas fired another shot, but the intruder sent the arrow into the air after hitting it- _with his bare hand_!

Everyone had frozen; those with weapons had them in their hands, the ones without already backed away. Elven guards ran along the wall until the creature was surrounded. He looked around, his emotions covered by a face mask, and his eyes covered by a glass-like eye shield that only he could see out of, evidently.

_Perfect_, the half vampire thought irritably. _Already caught by a bunch of pissed off elves._ He slowly shrugged off his rifle, laying it on the ground carefully. He unsheathed his silver plated Ka-bar, and laid it next to the rifle. After that, the ammo also joined the pile. Then he stepped back. "Listen, I didn't know where the hell I was a couple of seconds ago, and had I known, I wouldn't have-"

"Silence, creature of shadow!" Boromir snapped. He was one of the guys with a sword. As did Aragorn. There was a twang, and the vamp didn't have enough time to block or dodge. So he did the next best thing. Everyone gasped as Legolas' arrow punched into the creature's forearm. He only stared at it in shock before pulling it out in annoyance.

"Gandalf, can we please talk before the elves turn me into a pincushion?" the creature sighed in frustration.

"No need," the wizard said with a laugh. "Everyone, this man will be our tenth member."

Everyone, including the man dressed in black, looked at him in shock. "Okay, but ain't we being a little sexist? How come there is no female walker?" the dark man snapped. Gandalf chuckled again.

"My, my," he said softly. "Aren't we growing?" The dark man lifted the goggles from his eyes. They were completely black, and dead looking. "Alright, let me introduce Elenloth, lady warrior of the Galadhrim." All turned and watched as the doors opened.

The elf woman who stepped through the doors was annoyed. She had come to Rivendell to visit her mother. Now she was to participate in a quest at the request of Gandalf. She cursed in elvish. The men were mortal, the hobbits were cute but annoying, the dwarf was smelly, and she knew Legolas as a teaser from childhood. But then her eyes came across a stranger.

His eyes were jet black, but when they came across her, they flashed a sudden, brilliant gold. He looked away, and when their eyes met again, they were black again. "A half-vampire," she hissed, only just heard by those closest to her. But the whispers slipped through the crowd. "What is your name, fiend?" she snapped.

Streaks of gold colored his eyes briefly. "I am known in the elven tongue of Sindarin as Durandir."

"The dark wanderer," she stated quietly. He clenched his hand over his heart, then touched his forehead with his fingertips before bowing.


	2. This Sucks!

CHAPTER TWO

That night Durandir silently disassembled and cleaned his rifle. "What the hell am I doing?" he asked himself angrily. _Why do I have to go from time to time, world to world, suffering in each place?_ Was it repentance for his sins when he wandered the dark paths before he fought for good? He looked over his ammo reserves, then started to silently whisper, the magazines and rounds glowing before doubling. Durandir knew from experience that all the new ammo had the same identical properties, down to serial numbers and powder count.

Good. Now he had six magazines with five rounds each. But he could still be in trouble in a major battle. As he knew would come. He smiled in cruel satisfaction at the thought of orcs and uruk-hai coming up against a .50 cal. He frowned as the usual lightheadedness came across him from performing the one spell he knew.

_Huh, came later this time. Maybe I'm getting better. _He looked over his special shells. Two each of light and dark. Again the doubles of water, fire, air, metal, and earth. Which one would he use the most? He selected the water, fire, and metal shells, and duplicated those twice again before his weariness caught up with him. He collapsed onto a low bed, closing his eyes.

Immediately they opened again. Someone was approaching. He slid off the bed and extinguished the solitary candle. He drew his knife, and crawled up the wall to come to rest directly above the doorway. He always did like how he could climb and perch on all but the most vertical and slick surfaces. His door opened, and someone walked in.

It was the elleth, Elenloth. As his eyes sizing her up perfectly in the darkness, he dropped completely silently behind her. She sighed, and turned around, only to jump at realizing just how close he was. "What, come to kill me, lady?" he asked, his voice dead.

"No," she replied. "I only wished to ask you some questions."

"So you did not knock because-?" Durandir asked, getting nothing but silence in answer. His vampire side measured her before he could help himself. A strong heart beat, strong body, nice scent. He fought to not attack her. "My lady, I have not fed in a week and four days. It might be considered dangerous to be in my presence."

"I think I could defend myself, Durandir."

He laughed, the sound hollow in his throat. "I doubt it, my lady." He walked over to the candle, pulling out an old fashioned lighter out of his pocket. _At least these you can refill, _he thought to himself. He lit the candle, and flipped the metal top over the lighter's flame with a final sounding click.

He heard rustling behind him, no doubt a sound none but an elf could pick up. "What is this odd staff you have?" the light voice asked. Durandir turned, and noted for the first time that she was still dressed in her leather and suede armor designed to hide as well as protect.

"It is a rifle, something amazingly powerful. That one has a barrel half an inch wide, and I have purchased, through great difficulty, magic shells for it. Please do not touch them."

The elf looked at the half vampire with great curiosity. "How old are you?"

He snorted. "I was born under the English crown in the year 1383. The year I left Earth and came here was 2034, where much of the Earth was ruled by the North Atlantic Empire. Therefore I am six hundred fifty one. I am guessing you are somewhere in the thousands. But tell _me_, how many battles have you fought in, how many wars?"

"I have been in six battles, but not one was considered a war."

He snorted in anger. "I always thought that elves were weaker than stated. My lady, I have fought in the latter part of the Hundred Years War, the War of the Roses, The French and Indian War, the American Revolution, the War of 1812, the American Civil War, the Spanish-American War, World War One, World War Two, Korea, Vietnam, and countless other undeclared wars I care not to think about at this time. Over one hundred battles. And I both enjoyed and disliked the carnage I helped produce."

"You are proud of these wars?" the elleth asked, looking sickened.

"No, I am disgusted when I look back at what I did. But my vampire side revels in chaos and destruction." He paused, pulling a tight control on his emotions. "My lady, we leave in the morn. I suggest you get some sleep." She nodded, and left the room, tears coursing down her cheeks.

The second the sun peeked over the horizon, Durandir's eyes snapped open. He sighed, remembering what he had said the previous night. He slowly got up from bed, and dressed, wrapping his rifle up in some spare cloth. He checked to make sure he had everything, including all his newly made ammo. He made sure all his skin was covered, not liking the idea of severe sunburns.

He slipped into the hallway, already pulling his polarized goggles over his eyes. He wandered towards the small clearing he was given directions to the night before. Most of the Fellowship was already there. His eyes automatically averted out Elenloth. She was beautiful, with her auburn hair and grey eyes. Of course, her armor and weapons, the massive bow and arrows used by the elves of Lothlorien and the S shaped, five foot long sword, left no doubts as to where her power lay.

Even now she grasped the two and a half foot long hilt, and drew the sword over her shoulder. She peered down the blade, making sure it was razor sharp, before she tested its balance. As the blade whirled through the air, it made swooping noises. Satisfied, she sheathed the weapon in one fluid movement.

Elenloth had just sheathed her sword when she felt the eyes upon her. She turned, and saw Durandir. His covered face turned away quickly as if embarrassed. She sighed, remembering what was said the night before. So he was a warrior. The Fellowship was lucky to have him.

There was a soft neighing, and Elen looked over to see Samwise rubbing the face of Bill the pony. She smiled at how kind the Hobbit was, when she noticed he was glancing nervously at the direction of Durandir. She looked around, again noticing how everyone watched the half vampire in fear, revulsion, and distrust. The object of contemplation rolled his shoulders uneasily before he made his way over to Gandalf.

He began talking quietly with the wizard, making many hand gestures in his frustration. Gandalf had a familiar twinkle in his eye, and a smile on his lips. Durandir quickly calmed down, and nodded sadly. He walked away from the Fellowship to stand in shadow, before he pulled off his face mask. She gasped.

She had not seen his face in good light yet. His dark brown hair was sleeked back and ended at the base of his neck. He had high cheekbones, and a slanted yet strong jaw-line. He almost appeared elvish in appearance.

"How can I make them trust me?" Durandir muttered in a dark voice. He imitated Gandalf's deep voice next. "Take off your mask; show your face, old boy." He hissed in pain as the sun struck his face. "Bullshit!" He remained in his thoughts for a while, cursing softly now and then when he felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He started, turning to see Elenloth standing next to him.

"We're leaving," she said gently.

He nodded, and strode boldly to the end of the group, the elf woman just behind him. He could feel the hot gazes of the Rivendell elves staring at him. Just as he was about to pass the gate, he turned, and made a large sweeping bow. The assembled elves started whispering fiercely, but he passed through the gate.

The rest of the day passed without incident, nobody talking to Durandir, which suited him just fine. Then night fell. He sighed in relief as his senses opened up fully. He started feeling around for a heart, and found a couple of deer close by. He was just getting up to go feed, when something tugged his pant leg.

It was a Hobbit. "Hallo," he started, perkily. "My name is-"

"Peregrin son of Paladin Took, a Hobbit known for his mischievousness. Often accompanied by Meriadoc Brandybuck, another foolhardy Hobbit. Now, if you let me, I wish to go eat."

"But Sam has prepared sausages and cutlets. Don't you want any?" Pippin asked incredulously. No one turned down Samwise Gamgee's cooking. It just wasn't done. It was then the little man noticed the stranger's mouth curling in a slow smile. His front teeth were dominated by long and sharp eyeteeth. Pippin backed off in a hurry.

"Pippin!" came the call from the group. Aragorn, acting as the father. Pippin looked over to the campfire, and when he turned to the half vampire again, he had vanished in the night.


	3. Warming Up

CHAPTER THREE

Durandir entered the camp just before dawn, not surprised to see the two elves already up and talking quietly. They stopped when they noticed him, Elenloth giving a short nod of greeting, Legolas just glared at him. He smiled in return, feeling energized. He always did feel good after a feeding. And he did not kill, or even really weaken any of the deer he coaxed into stillness.

Unfortunately he hadn't really slept at all that night, and was now slightly tired. He did not look forward to a long day's travel. Aragorn was the next to wake, noting Durandir with a slight frown. And so it was with everyone, except Gandalf. Even after traveling a few weeks with the Fellowship, they still distrusted him.

Suddenly he realized where they were, in a rocky terrain near the Caradhras Mountains. He cursed, sizing up the area. No, it would be later that the birds would come. There was a clattering, and a curse. Everyone looked to see Sam trying to get his bulky pack on. He grinned sheepishly as the conversations began again.

Durandir stood up, pulling his rifle's sling over his shoulder. He walked up to Sam, who watched him apprehensively. "Here, Sam. Let me carry that today. I know it wearies you."

Sam looked at him for a couple of seconds. Everything had gotten more silent. "You ain't going to steel nothing, are you?"

Durandir just laughed. "Do you really think I could find something of use in your pack, something my kind would use?"

Sam just looked down in embarrassment. Durandir knelt down in front of him, speaking so only he and the Hobbit could hear. "To prove my worth, I can get you more of that Shire salt you have in that small box. I just need to see it."

Sam's eyes widened. "Would you, sir?" he asked hopefully. He quickly pulled the wooden box out of his pack. "'Cause I only have so much, and with more, I could use it more often." He handed the box over. Durandir placed it on the ground, and concentrated on it. Soon there were two identical boxes.

Sam picked up the new box with trembling hands. He opened it, and took a pinch from inside. He tasted it, and the gardener's eyes widened with amazement. "It is, it is! Thank you, mister Durandir! How can I repay you?"

"Let me carry your pack." The hobbit nodded, and let Durandir take his bag. Sam ran off to Frodo, telling him what a nice person the half vampire really was. Durandir just watched him, shaking his head softly. He then noticed everyone was staring at him. "What?"

Later that day, they stopped for rest. Before doing anything else, Durandir quickly hid whatever was not needed for food or camp preparation. After tying up Bill in an area even the Crows would have trouble spotting, he returned to camp. Elenloth smiled, and patted the next to her on the rock perch. Everyone had warmed up considerably after what he did for Sam.

Sam offered him a plate of food, but Durandir declined. Merry and Pippin were being taught swordplay by Boromir. They paused briefly. "You look good, Merry!" said Pippin.

"Faster," Boromir urged. Clang, clang, clang.

There was a grumble from Gimli. "If anyone were to ask for this dwarf's opinion, which I note they're not, I'd say we were taking the _long_ way round. Gandalf, let us use the Mines of Moria." By now Durandir had fully extinguished the fire.

"No Gimli. I would not use that road unless given no other choice," Gandalf stated.

"OW!" came from the fight.

"Sorry!" Boromir cried, before being attacked by the feisty Hobbits.

"For the Shire!" one yelled.

Aragorn stood up, laughing. Durandir walked to Elenloth, motioning to the dark patch of birds. "That's enough, gentlemen," Aragorn said before being tripped by Merry and Pippin.

"Gandalf, the spies of Saruman approach," Durandir said warily, pointing towards the dark patch that had grown slightly larger.

"It's nothing, just a wisp of cloud," stated Gimli confidently.

"No, it's moving against the wind! I've hid everything, now hide! Quick!" Durandir snapped. There was a short pause, then everyone dove to cover, having more time then they would have to hide better. Five minutes later, the birds passed. But this time, they went above the stone pile, and they continued on their path, not turning around.

Ten minutes after they had passed overhead, the Fellowship slowly crept from their hiding places. Gandalf sighed, and looked towards the flock of birds growing smaller. "The passage south is being watched. We will go over Caradhras," he said.

They started to pack up, again Durandir pulled on Sam's pack. As he helped everyone locate hidden things, Elenloth came over to him. "I was thinking about that one night, in Rivendell. Eleven wars and they all sound different. Did you go look for them?"

"No," he said. "Like I stated before, I lived under the English crown in my early days, and fought for King Henry the Fifth." The Fellowship started trekking for the mountain in the distance. "Of course, I also fought in the War of the Roses, on the Parliament's side. That was the last battle I fought for the British. Then I fought in the Revolution, and the War of 1812, both against the British. From then on out, I fought in all the wars the U.S. fought in. I didn't turn any down, true, but that might have been the vampire side of me."

"Parliament, U.S.? And you spoke of the North Atlantic Empire?"

"Parliament was a branch of government for the British. Britain was a small island nation, by the way. U.S. stood for United States, what used to be a colony of Britain, until-" And so Durandir told her of his life. The history of the U.S. How NATO joined to become the North Atlantic Empire. What wars and battles were the bloodiest, how he once helped stop a battle from starting.

Pretty soon the entire Fellowship was listening. They gasped when they heard of the complete loss of magic, except for a few spell casters, like him. The discovery of Humanoid Vampires, and the great burning of Vampires. It was all misunderstood. Vampires had not wanted to drink human blood all the time. The number of fatalities from over feeding was less than six hundred, which was pretty good, considering how long Vamps had been around. And any Vampire that fed solely on humans was considered evil, and was hunted down.

"Can you turn me into a vampire?" asked Pippin. They had set up camp at the base of the mountain, and were all settled in.

"No, I can't. Vampirism is not a disease or curse. A Vampire is a species different from man, just as elves, dwarves and hobbits are."

Boromir snorted. "Still doesn't stop you from being a bastard blood sucker." Everything grew way quiet as everyone looked to see Durandir's eyes start to glow a sudden gold. He stood up, walked over to Boromir, and grabbed him by the front of his tunic. "Hey!" Boromir protested.

Durandir lifted his arm, suspending Boromir six inches off the ground. "He's strong," Pippin remarked, not knowing that now was not the time.

With his teeth bared, fully showing his fangs, Durandir hissed in seething anger. Boromir quit struggling and watched in fear. "Blood sucker I may be," he growled, his voice deep and hollow, "but never, _ever_ insult my mother like that! I may not have been born by her choice, but the _fucking_ Vampire rapist that did that to her died by my hand! Don't insult her again, understood!" Boromir nodded, and was dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

Durandir stalked back to his spot, and lay down, refusing to speak at all the rest of the night.

**There will be some action in the next chapter, I promise!**


	4. Mines of Moria, and feeding time

**AN- I don't own any of the Fellowship, nor Middle Earth. But the half vampire is mine. Back off!**

**Also, I'll be using a new POV type of writing, though still in third person. Should I use first person? **

**Dairokkan, you are my only reviewer. God Bless You! (sniff, sniff) Seriously, if I don't get many more reviews, my story will degrade through depression.**

CHAPTER FOUR

Caradhras, a name which many fear. Durandir did not bother to tell anyone that it was futile to try to climb the mountain. It had been long since he had seen the movies, but he could remember enough of it to help. But there were some things that he could not change, nor should he try to change.

And so, there he was, trudging across the snowy mountain, trying not to be blinded by the sun. It did not bother him normally anymore, but now the sun was reflected off all the snow. There was an oof! and the sound of someone rolling and tumbling. Frodo passed both he and Boromir before coming to a halt at Aragorn's feet.

Durandir looked down and saw the ring, the One Ring of Power. Before thinking about it, he reached down and picked it up. _Fire! Hatred! Death! Durandir, Durandir! Take me, and rule the world, no longer have to face hatred! Durandir, I SEE YOU!_

In shock, Durandir let the ring fall from his fingers before he stumbled back. Boromir sauntered forward and picked it up by the chain. The man paused, staring at the gold band. "It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing!"

Everyone had stopped and started watching Boromir. "Boromir!" Aragorn called out, danger in his voice. "Give the ring back to Frodo."

When Boromir still hesitated, Durandir snarled, "Now!" Boromir frowned, but walked back to Frodo. "As you wish," he said as Frodo took back the ring. "I care not." He ruffled Frodo's hair. It wasn't until afterwards that Aragorn let go of his blade.

The rest of the day passed rather quickly for the half vampire. Until they reached the pass. He stood just behind Aragorn, who was carrying one of the hobbits. The wind was whipping snow against them, and all were shivering, except the elves and Durandir.

"So half vampires don't get cold!" Aragorn shouted over the wind.

"I once slept naked in a sub-zero blizzard!" he shouted in return. He glanced in annoyance as the two elves walked past him. On top of the snow. "But I can't do that!"

"There is a fell voice on the wind!" Legolas shouted.

"It's Saruman!"

There was a rumbling as some of the snow above them fell down in an avalanche. "Gandalf, he's trying to bring down the mountain! We must turn back!" Aragorn pleaded.

"No!" Gandalf yelled back before he ran to the edge of the cliff and started yelling counter spells. But to no avail. A lightning bolt slammed into the mountain above them, and a ton of snow started towards them. Legolas grabbed Gandalf and threw him back to the cliff.

With a start, Durandir realized Elenloth was too close to the edge! "Damn!" he shouted as he leapt forward. He hugged her close as he swung towards the cliff, shielding her with his body.

Elenloth's POV:

She had been trying to decipher the words on the air when someone grabbed her roughly and pulled her to the cliff. The person shielded her with his body when the snow and stone fell among them. For a few minutes she could not move with the weight that surrounded her. Then her protector broke through the snow and pulled her up. She turned, prepared to see Legolas or Aragorn, but it was Durandir.

He was gently touching a nasty cut near his temple, wincing gently. "-and take the West road to my city!" Boromir was shouting.

"That will take us too close to Isengard," Aragorn countered.

"Gandalf, if we can not pass over the mountain, then why can't we go under it? Let us use the Mines of Moria."

Gandalf hesitated for a long time, and Elenloth wished to get out of the cold. Even she was feeling the razor sharp winds. But she noticed something odd. At the mention of Moria, Durandir's eyes showed the dangerous flicker of gold, and he looked almost happy.

"Let the ring-bearer decide," Gandalf said. When Frodo chose Moria, Durandir made a pumping motion with his arm.

The Gate of Hollin, Durandir POV:

Durandir sat patiently at the gate of Moria, waiting for Frodo to understand it was a riddle. Merry and Pippin had already thrown stones into the water, and ripples were forming. He pulled out his rifle, and cycled back the bolt. Inserting a fire round, he slotted the bolt back forward. Everyone looked at him curiously.

"It's a riddle," Frodo suddenly exclaimed. "Speak friend, and enter. Gandalf, what's the elvish word for friend?"

"Mellon."

There was a rumbling, and the gates swung outward. The Fellowship walked in and Gimli started boasting. "Soon, master elves, you will enjoy the fabled hospitality of the dwarves. Roaring fires, malt beer, ripe meet off the bone." He sniffed in and out deeply. "They call this a mine, a _mine_!"

Gandalf then lit his staff. "This is no mine," Boromir started.

"It is a tomb," Durandir finished.

"Everyone get out. Get out!"

Then things started happening quickly. Frodo was attacked, and cut free by one of the hobbits. Durandir already had the rifle up to his shoulder and his legs braced for the recoil. Many tentacles exploded out of the water, and there were shouts of panic. The half vampire concentrated on the full moon world of the scope. "Into the mines!" someone shouted. The thing lurched out of the water, grabbing hold of the gate.

There was a small click as he turned off the safety. Center the sight right between the eyes. "Cover your ears!" Gentle pressure to the trigger. It broke, sending the firing pin into the back of the shell.

Legolas's POV:

The elf had just sent an arrow into the creature's eye when he heard the shout of warning. He turned around, not yet covering his ears. He started to ask "What?" But he never made it. There was a roar as loud as twenty thunderclaps, and a beam of fire erupted out of the half vampire's staff.

It blew past him, causing a blast of wind to push him against the wall. The creature screamed in death's pain, and the door began to collapse. He ran into the mines, the stones and rubble closing the entrance behind him. "What in the name of the Valar was that?" he demanded, his sensitive ears still ringing.

"I don't like squids," came the soft reply from the darkness.

Durandir's POV:

Moria. A name that instilled fear in many people. But he liked it. No more sun, and his eyes adjusted perfectly to the dark. He could live here rather comfortably. But the hunger was edging up on him. Hopefully he could find a goblin or some such soon. _Wonder what their blood tastes like?_ He reached out with his senses, and found a bunch of heartbeats to a path down the left.

He slipped away from the Fellowship quietly, hoping nobody would notice. He disappeared into the darkness, and slithered down a small embankment perfectly silently. He neared the five goblins, and smiled. Time to hunt.

Elenloth's POV:

She was listening to Legolas speak of Mirkwood to Gimli, the dwarf countering with tales of the Lonely Mountain. Every once in a while she would laugh softly. Suddenly she noticed a shadow depart from the group. Durandir?

She followed him, using all the skills she had learned as one of the Galadhrim to keep quiet. As she lightly quick stepped her way down a slope, she felt familiar presences up ahead. _Goblins?_ They sometimes vented into Lothlorien, and she had fought them before. But had Durandir?

She watched in shock as he stepped into plain view of the goblins. They started, but sneered and surrounded him. What happened next she would never forget in all her days of immortality. The first goblin to die had its throat torn out by the half vampire, the black blood spraying into the air. The next had its forehead slammed into its brain. Despite the fact that it had a helmet on. One of the few goblins left tried desperately to stab Durandir, but had its head literally torn off.

One of the two remaining sneered in victory as it slashed Durandir, but he turned, and she saw his eyes for the first time. They were blazing with a golden fury, glowing in the dark with a hellish anger. He grabbed the offender by face, and slammed the goblin into the wall, letting the its head become part of the stone wall.

The last tried to flee, back Durandir seemed to fade like a mirage, then appear right in front of the terrified goblin. It slashed in a panic, but Durandir blocked it, and seized its shoulder and head, before he sank his teeth into the goblin's jugular. She could hear the gulping noises he made as he drank deeply.

He soon dropped the body, and she jumped at the clanking sound, making a small pile of rubbish scrape against the ground. He turned, his mouth and chin covered in the black blood, but his eyes instantly turned from furious flinty gold to a softer gold of concern.

"Elenloth," he started, but stopped. After a pause, he started again. "So you know how I feed when hunting my enemies."

She cried out, turned, and ran.


	5. Balin's Tomb, and MAJOR PAIN!

**AN- Okay, I have had to update this chapter five times due to typos. Really annoying!**

**Still, I now have _two_ reviewers! Sweetness! Crecy, thanks for the kind words. Don't forget, this story is rated M for violence and possible later love scenes. Now, on with the creepiness!**

CHAPTER FIVE

The next day, as they waited for Gandalf to choose which of the three doorways to go through, the hobbits, especially Pippin, would not leave Durandir alone. They had started to like him, and just because he brutally slaughtered some goblins would not make them change their minds about him.

"Did you really tear one of their heads off?" Pippin asked in amazement. Durandir heard a scoff of disbelief from Boromir.

"Yes, I did," the half vampire said quietly as he checked the light slash he had received. It was healing quickly, as usual. "And if you don't leave me the hell alone, you can join him!" Durandir didn't really want to hurt the little one's feelings, he was just pissed because now all the more experienced among the Fellowship were showing him the cold shoulder, something Durandir tried to ignore.

"Sorry," Pippin said, and walked off to join Merry. "Has he decided?" he asked quietly.

"Shh, Pip. He's thinking."

"Merry."

"What?"

"I'm hungry," Pippin said softly. Durandir almost laughed, but he noticed the glare he was getting from Elenloth. He sighed in frustration, and watched as Frodo and Gandalf talked softly. Suddenly Gandalf looked up.

"Ahh, it's this way!"

"He's remembered!" Merry said brightly.

"Not at all, master Meriadoc. The air simply smells less foul down this way. When in doubt," he lay a fatherly hand down on Merry's shoulder, "follow your nose." Durandir snorted involuntarily. _Toucan Sam. How ironic is that?_

They followed the winding passage down, until they reached the great hall of Dwarrowdelf. "Let us risk a little more light," Gandalf said as his staff started glowing brighter. Even Durandir gasped with shock. The movie did this place no justice. It was huge! They started forward, Durandir already spotting the shaft of sunlight that would lead Gimli to Balin, and the Fellowship to the Balrog.

As expected, Gimli gave a loud shout, and ran over to the low door.

"Gimli!" Gandalf shouted, but to no effect. The dwarf ran into the room, crying as he caught sight of the tomb. Durandir really did feel sorry for Gimli; the dwarf must feel like Durandir did when his wife… no, he would _not _think of that!

Gandalf and the rest of the Fellowship followed the distraught Gimli, and the wizard walked up to the tomb. "'Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, lord of Moria.' It is as I feared."

Durandir heard Legolas state to Aragorn, "We must not linger, we have to keep moving." Durandir growled as he reached into his ass pack for a magazine.

"Shut the fuck up elf! Do you have any idea what Gimli is feeling right now!" he snapped

The elf turned angrily towards Durandir. "And do you, creature of the night? Do _you_ know what it feels like to lose a loved one, like Gimli?"

Durandir lowered his head in shame and sadness. "Yes, I do," he said quietly. He slid the mag into the rifle, cycling the bolt quickly and loudly.

Gandalf had already picked up the book from the dead dwarf's hands. "We have barred the gate, and they have taken the Bridge and second hall. We cannot get out. Drums, drums in the deep. We cannot get out." He paused, forewarning coloring his voice. "They are coming!"

There was a loud crash, and everyone jumped in shock, even Durandir. Pippin! How had he forgotten Pippin? The rest of the skeleton followed the head into the well, dragging the chain and bucket along with it. Everyone one stood stock still until the sounds faded. "Fool of a Took! Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your stupidity!" Gandalf hissed loudly as he snatched his staff and hat back from the shocked and ashamed hobbit. He was storming away, but stopped as a new sound registered. _BOOOOM!_ a drum sounded far away. **_BOOOOM_**! closer now, far closer. **_Doom, doom, doom, DOOM! _**sounded rapidly, coming closer now.

"The door, quick!" Durandir shouted.

Boromir nodded and ran closer to it, and looked out. He leaped back as a couple of arrows sunk into the door near his head. "They have a cave troll," he remarked dryly. He, Aragorn, and Legolas started barring the door with axes and pieces of wood.

"Hobbits, stay with Gandalf!" Durandir commanded. There was a loud crunch at the door, then a continuous hacking. Everyone in the Fellowship shifted to their battle positions.

Gimli jumped to the top of Balin's tomb. "Let them come! There is yet one dwarf in Moria who still draws breath!" the stout warrior growled.

"Damned right Gim!" Durandir shouted, battle rage descending upon him. He stepped in front of the archers. "Leave now, or pay the price of death!" he challenged. There was loud laughter from the goblins on the other side of the door, who renewed their hacking. He shrugged. "I warned 'em," he said to himself. "Cover your ears!" This time all of the Fellowship listened without question.

**Ka-BLAM! **Durandir rocked back, the dust of the ground before him erupted from the force of the shot. Clack chack-chack clack! sounded as he cycled the bolt. **Ka-BLAM! **Clack chack-chack clack! **Ka-BLAM!** Clack chack-chack clack! **Ka-BLAM!** Clack chack-chack clack! **Ka-BLAM!**

There was a stillness on the other side of the door. The disturbed dust slowly settled. With a triumphant grin he turned, reaching into his ass pack for another magazine. "See? Easy!" Of course, it was then that the troll tore through the door, and back-handed the half vampire with its massive hand, slamming the half vampire intoone of thehard stone walls.


	6. Into Darkness

**AN- Okay, I don't own the Fellowship, Middle Earth, or many of its people. I _do_ own Elenloth and Durandir. Mine!**

**Despite the fact that I haven't recieved any reviews for Chap. 5, I couldn't wait to update again. Cliffielast chapter, cliffie this chapter. (Evil laugh)**

CHAPTER SIX

Elenloth's POV:

She watched in horror as Durandir flew through the air and slammed into the wall. When he fell down, she could see the crack in the wall where he had hit. The troll roared in triumphbefore Legolas loosed an arrow into its chest. It bellowed, and moved forward, the goblins charging in after it.

She drew back the string of her bow, the poundage of two hundred causing familiar strain against her arm. The four foot arrow was drawn past her eye, and once she sighted a goblin, she released. The arrow flew through the air, and hit one of the goblins. The sheer power of the arrow caused it to punch through not one, not two, but _three_ of the goblins.

She quickly reached over her right shoulder for another arrow, and killed another two goblins with it. But then they were upon her, and she drew her five foot sword over her left shoulder, her hands going to the top and the bottom of the two and a half foot hilt. She whirled the blade around, and it whipped through the armor of the creatures surrounding her, lopping off arms and heads, and cutting through torsos.

She continued the scything movements of her attacks, and once she had the chance looked over to where Durandir lay. He wasn't there anymore. But then the goblins attacked again, and she countered with her own attacks. Suddenly she spotted him, holding a destroyed rifle, and being surrounded by goblins. His left arm was held oddly to his side.

Durandir's POV:

The troll had stepped onto his rifle, and crushed it. Only the scope was undamaged. He suddenly became aware of the goblins moving in to fight him. He hopped into the air, and executed a roundhouse kick, facial and spinal bones crunching and popping under the force of his combat boots.

His arm gave another excruciating wave of pain, and he gasped. He wasn't sure what exactly was wrong with it, but at least it wasn't broken. He quickly removed the scope from the rifle, and moved among the goblins, kicking and slamming with his good arm.

He reached Sam, and broke the neck of a goblin that was about to slash the hobbit. There was a clang as Sam dispatched another goblin with his frying pan. "I think I'm getting the hang of this," he gasped, and swung again, hitting another.

Gimli had already retrieved the massive axe from Balin's Tomb, and was happily hacking away at the goblin horde. _Where were the rest of the hobbits_? Durandir thought desperately. The cave troll already had them!

He couldn't see because of the damn troll! Frodo suddenly began shouting out in fear. "Aragorn! ARAGORN!"

With a shout, the king-to-be leaped in front of the troll with a spear, and stabbed it in the chest. But Aragorn was swept aside with relative ease.

Troll's POV:

Now it had another weapon! Something on the little being with furry feet was calling the cave troll, and it wanted it. The massive beast wondered how the little thing would taste. Just as it jabbed forward with the spear for the final, fatal thrust, it felt its attack slow, and stop.

Durandir's POV:

Talk about stupid! Now Durandir had really taken the bull by the horns! His hands latched onto the trident's head and his feet braced onto the wall on each side of Frodo, he was now contesting his strength against the troll's.

The center spike was coming closer and closer to his neck, and his left arm felt ready to give out. "Frodo!" he hissed. "Get out of here!" Sweat popped out on his brow as the spear gained another few inches. Both his arms were shaking with the strain. Just as the hobbit started to run, Durandir rocketed away from the wall, and towards the ceiling. The damned troll had simply pulled the trident up!

"No!" he gasped as he hit the ceiling. Both stone and bone broke beneath the impact, and Durandir felt his broken ribs stab into his lungs. He fell to the ground limply, and gasped as another wave of pain hit him. He stood shakily, and drew his ka-bar. The troll had stabbed Frodo, and was reeling back, Merry and Pippin on its back, stabbing and hacking.

Durandir stumbled forward, and jabbed his knife into the troll's knee. He pulled back, dislocating the knee with a nasty sounding pop. The troll dropped to its knees, and Durandir spun the blade around in his hands. He swung his arm with all his might, catching the troll in the neck with the pommel of the blade.

The troll choked as its trachea collapsed, and swelled. Within minutes it collapsed on the floor, dead. Durandir touched his face around the nose and mouth, and his fingers came away bloody. The blood was bright red. It was as he feared, his lungs were damaged. "Is…Frodo…alright?" he gasped out, his breathing growing shallower by the minute.

"I'm alright, I'm okay," Frodo said to Aragorn, who had crawled over to the hurt hobbit.

"Frodo, that spear would have skewered a wild boar!" Aragorn exclaimed.

The hobbit pulled open his jacket, showing the mithril vest. Gimli gasped. "It seems you are full of surprises, master hobbit," the dwarf said in awe.

Suddenly there was the sound of more goblins approaching. "We must flee!" Gandalf shouted, and all started for the other door opposite to the one the goblins had come through. Durandir attempted to get up and follow, but he fell to his knees, and coughed huge wracking coughs. Blood dribbled out of his mouth and onto the floor.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Elenloth. Even if she despised him, now they were in combat, and had to look out for each other. "I'm alright!" he wheezed, trying to ignore the stabbing pain. He got up, partially supported by the she-elf, and followed the Fellowship. The goblins were already pouring out of the cracks in the ceiling and floor.

Soon they were completely surrounded. In his weakened state, Durandir couldn't defend _himself_, much less the rest of the Fellowship. Just as the goblins were to charge forward, a rumbling growl roared through the hall. The vibrations caused by the sound pained Durandir's ribs even more. The goblins started looking around and screeching in fear. Another large growl caused them to flee.

Gimli shouted triumphantly, and Legolas scanned for targets with his bow before he lowered it in fear. "What is this new devilry?" Boromir asked softly. Gandalf paused, thinking, but it was not he who spoke.

"Balrog," came the weak reply from the half vampire. He was now completely supported by Elenloth, who looked worried for his present state. "We must make it to the bridge of Khazad-dum. If we don't, we will fall…to flame…and shadow."

Gandalf nodded, and they ran forward, coming to a doorway. They ran through, and Durandir caught sight of Boromir being caught by Legolas just as he almost fell into the great chasm. "Aragorn," he heard Gandalf say. "Lead them to the bridge of Khazad-dum." Aragorn protested, but was pushed back by Gandalf. "Do as I say! Swords are no more use here!"

They ran on until they reached the gap in the stair way. Legolas leaped across, and motioned back. "Gandalf!" The gray wizard nodded, and also jumped across. An arrow flew out of the darkness, and bounced off the stone steps. The three bows of the Fellowship answered.

"Elenloth! Go!" Durandir commanded. She frowned, but jumped across. Boromir jumped, holding Merry and Pippin, just as the stairs cracked beneath his feet. Add another five feet to the ten. Sam was thrown over unceremoniously by Aragorn, and he reached for Gimli, but the stubborn dwarf held up a hand.

"No one tosses a dwarf!" he roared before he leaped as far as his stubby legs allowed. He started falling backwards, but Legolas grabbed his beard, and pulled him forward, despite Gimli's shouts of, "Not the beard!"

There was more cracking, and more of the stairs fell into the abyss. Now it would be next to impossible to jump. A thundering roar sounded behind them, and stone fell form the ceiling, crushing through some, but not all, of the stairs.

Durandir hissed in pain and frustration. He would have to jump. "Aragorn, get on my back. Frodo, get on his."

"But I could not make that jump on my own, much less with two people on my back!" Aragorn argued.

"Do it, or the Fellowship has failed!" Durandir yelled as loud as he could, which wasn't very, considering the damage done to him. Grudgingly, Aragorn let Frodo crawl onto his back before he latched onto Durandir's.

Durandir took a couple of breaths before he backed up, and leapt off the stairs. "We're not going to make it!" Aragorn shouted.

The three people hit the edge of the stairs, and slid about a foot down before Durandir's fingers found purchase on the ragged stone. "Get them up!" he hissed. His fingers scraped another few inches down. "Now!" He began to hyperventilate. Frodo, then Aragorn, were lifted off his shoulders. Just then, his fingers slipped, and Durandir fell.

But someone grabbed his hand, and pulled him up. Durandir looked at Legolas in shock. "Thank me later," the wood elf shrugged. Durandir nodded weakly. The group ran onwards and downwards. They made it to another chamber, with a wall of fire behind them.

There was a roar of flames, and the Balrog,in all its power, reared up behind the group. "Fly!" Gandalf shouted. "Hurry!"

Durandir made it to the bridge just ahead of Gandalf. He started over, not thinking of the chasm he was standing over. "Left right left right left right," he murmured to himself as he quickly and painfully moved over the bridge.

He reached the other side, and collapsed wearily on the stone steps leading out of Moria. "You cannot pass!" was heard from the bridge.

"Gandalf!" Frodo shouted in fear.

"I am the servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Arnor!" A white shield glowed around Gandalf. The Balrog struck it with a fiery sword, but was sent back. "The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udun!" The Balrog stepped onto the bridge, and cracked a mighty whip of fire.

"You CANNOT PASS!" Gandalf bellowed as he struck the bridge with his staff. The Balrog snorted before it stepped forward again. The bridge cracked, and fell to pieces right under the Balrog feet. The demon fell.

"Gandalf…run," Durandir gasped weakly. But as the wizard turned around, the demon's whip wrapped around his legs, pulling him down. Gandalf desperately grasped the stone.

"Fly, you fools!" he gasped before he was pulled down.

"Gandalf!" Frodo screamed again before being pulled away by Boromir. Arrows started to fall among them. Durandir stood up, legs shaking from pain and exhaustion. The Fellowship ran into the sunlight before dropping again.

"Legolas, Gimli, get them up," Aragorn said quietly as he cleaned his sword.

"Give them a moment, for pities sake!" Boromir snapped.

Elenloth pointed to Durandir, who lay panting in the sun. "The half vampire can barely move, let them rest!"

"By nightfall these hills will be swarming with orcs! We must reach Lothlorien before then. Legolas, get them up." He walked over to Sam. "On your feet, Sam, on your feet."

Durandir painfully clambered to his feet. "I'm alright. I can move," he hissed.

"Frodo?" Aragorn called. "Frodo!" The distraught hobbit turned, tears silently falling down his face. The Fellowship slowly moved onwards, towards the forest in the distance. For Durandir, the time past in hazy painfulness. What seemed to be years later, he heard Gimli talking.

"Stay close young hobbits! They say a powerful elf witch lives in these woods, and all who see her are put under her spell, and are never seen again!" He grunted. "Here's one dwarf she won't ensnare so easily! I have the ears of a fox, and the eyes of a hawk!" The dwarf suddenly gave a soft oh! as he looked right at an arrow.

A fuzzy shape came into Durandir's vision. "The dwarf breathes so loudly we could have shot him in the dark," Haldir sneered. Before he could continue, Durandir shifted out of place, and ended up right behind the cocky elf. Through his knife's blade at Haldir's neck, Durandir could feel the elf tense up.

Aware of the fact that all the elves were now pointing bows at him, Durandir gasped at another tidal wave of pain. "This is how…you would treat…the Fellowship, and one of your own?" he coughed. The world grew dark. The ka-bar fell from his senseless hands. He collapsed, hearing Elenloth shout out his name in despair. He fell into darkness.


	7. Love's Blood

**AN- Sorry for the wait, guys. Thanks for the reviews! The writers out there must know what it feels like to get reviews. (GREAT!) Okay, constructive criticism is allowed, if not wanted. I want to make the story better for you guys!**

**Disclaimer- I own neither the Fellowship, nor Middle Earth. I do own Elenloth and Durandir.**

**Now, on with the show-**

CHAPTER SEVEN

The young Durandir stood amongst the archers, shivering slightly in the cold autumn air. It had been raining heavily, and now the ground was soggy with mud, mist playing across the field. There was a dull thunder, felt through the ground.

"The French doth approach the field!" someone shouted from down the line. Indeed, a cavalry charge composed of the best of the French Knights was charging the ragged English line. The couple hundred English Knights prepared, while the rest of the hand-to-hand English forces were getting ready behind the nervous horses.

"Ready!" the Captain shouted. All bows had an arrow knocked, and drawn halfway. The thundering grew louder. "Aim!" The bows were pointed into the sky, strings fully to the cheek. The Captain was watching the young King, Henry the Fifth, grow more and more nervous. With a shout, the King's hand rose. "RELEASE!"

With a roar, five thousand arrows flew into the air, to come down like rain upon the heavily armored French. The English armor rode forward. So began the Battle of Agincourt.

Elenloth's POV:

The elleth watched in fear as Durandir gasped painfully again. His body arched in pain, and all she could do was lay another damp, cool cloth atop the fevered Durandir's forehead. _What could he be dreaming of? _she asked herself.

Durandir's Dream State:

Durandir raised the M1 Garand to his shoulder, and quickly fired off a clip into one of the hedgerows of Normandy. A potato masher grenade flew through the air to land at one of his friend's feet. "Matthew!" he shouted out, but Matt didn't jump fast enough. There was an explosion, and Matt's shredded body flew into the air before landing to the ground.

Suddenly, he was in the Vietnamese jungle. It was pouring, and he watched as the NVA bravely assaulted the fort yet again. "Claymores! Now!" Sergeant Johnston yelled, and with a bone shattering roar, several ranks of the enemy were disintegrated.

"Open fire!" Cap Myers shouted. Crack-crack-crack! Durandir let off a three round burst into the assaulting enemy with his M16, not knowing if he hit or not, but hey, that was combat.

It was still raining, but now he was atop a four story apartment building. He had his fifty caliber rifle locked and cocked, the bright silver Metal Shell now slotted snugly in the breach. "Sniper, target is rounding Mary Street onto North Avenue. Do you see it?" crackled his radio.

"Da!" he replied, not caring what language he used. Today he simply felt like Russian.

"You have green light."

Durandir caressed the trigger into firing, the heavy shell blasting out into the night. The motorcycle with the renegade Vamp disappeared, replaced with a fifty foot deep crater that was ten feet wide and slanted into the street at a thirty degree angle. "Mission accomplished, pulling out," he said.

It was just after dusk, and the party had just gotten started. "James, James!" Durandir said drunkenly to his best friend. "Isn't it great that Mary and I have finally gotten married?"

His best friend smiled in reply. "Damn right! What've you been waiting for, thirty-four years now?"

"Hey, we're both half vampires, we can take all the time we want." Pride and joy swelled in Durandir's breast, and he grinned happily to his friend. "Look, we got to talking, Mary and I, and we thought that _you_ should be the godfather of our children. What d'ya say, huh?"

James smiled widely, showing the near perfect fangs of a full-blood. "I would be honored!"

Subconsciously, Durandir knew exactly where this would lead to. He tried to resist. But to no avail.

He lay sleeping in bed with his wife, when something hot splashed across his face. His eyes opened at the familiar taste. _Blood!_ He asked himself in panic, forcing himself to rouse with all the speed he could. It was too late. Mary already lay decapitated, the blood leaking out onto the mattress.

He looked up to the murderer, surprised to see a face he knew all too well. "James?" he asked quietly, trying to understand what had happened.

"She was supposed to be mine!" the pure Vampire hissed. "Now none of us shall have her! And you can wander the paths of darkness as I have!"

And it was true. For the next few years, Durandir wandered. He killed all that got in his path. Human, half blood, full blood, it did not matter. Vampire Hunters tried to slay him. He killed them first. But finally he was destroyed, only to wake up in a different time, a different place.

Now his dreams shifted to the uncertain, to the future. Helm's Deep. James was here too! They were fighting, James using the Vampire made Katana he used to kill Mary and Durandir using his ka-bar. Durandir saw his death, and saw Elenloth running as fast as she could, screaming his name.

"No!" he tried to shout, "I love you!" But she came onward, and was struck down by James. The Uruks captured Helm's Deep, killing all, the women, children, everyone. Including the remainder of the Fellowship.

His eyes snapped open, to see auburn hair and concerned grey eyes staring back at him. His first thoughts were _Enemy!_ and _Food!_ He grabbed a wrist, and pulled hard, flipping the person over so he straddled his adversary. He swooped down quickly.

Elenloth's POV:

Before she knew it, she was on the bed, with Durandir on top of her, his eyes empty voids of black, only showing hunger. She had expected this, and almost welcomed it. But he never bit her. Before she could realize he had changed his direction, his mouth was on hers, kissing her hard. His eyes were gold. He reared back, gasping for breath. "In my dreams, I had lost you!" he choked out. He collapsed over her, sobbing great gasping cries.

Durandir's POV:

Since when had she meant this much to him? Now he was holding the elleth closely, holding her tight so she could never die on him. Then he realized. He had loved her since the beginning, but just denied his feelings, until now. He would have never tried to save her on Caradhras if he hadn't loved her.

But the dreams destroyed that feeling of indifference. Suddenly his head felt light, and he realized he hadn't fed in so long! His body was saying three weeks, at least. "Elen, get out of here," he growled, his voice raspy.

"Is it the hunger?" she asked, not moving when he slid off her. He nodded, all his senses focusing on her. It took all his willpower to not rip her throat out. "I am staying."

He lifted up his hand and watched in fear as it shook. "Are you insane!" he snapped. His willpower crumbled a little.

"The Lady Galadriel said you would need to feed, and no one else, besides the hobbits, would volunteer. Quickly now, before I change my mind." Her voice was calm, but her body shook.

"I refuse."

"What was that hand gesture you made to me when you first set eyes upon me, when you touched your heart and forehead?"

Durandir sighed in defeat. "I was swearing allegiance to you, in the Vampire way. It is an unbreakable oath."

"Then I command you by your oath, feed off me!" Elenloth hissed, her eyes set and determined.

Durandir nodded in shame, and then straddled her. "Are you aware of the fact that there are chemicals in my bite that will make you want to lay with me? I ask you now, do you wish to follow through with that?"

Elenloth gasped, but then shook her head no. Durandir chuckled softly. "Then maybe later I will show you how deep my love extends for you at another time." He slowly leaned down over her neck.

Elenloth's POV:

The pain was intense at first, but was soon replaced by pleasure. The feeling of his warm lips on her neck was incredibly arousing. She was no innocent of sex, for after live for two thousand years she had been in the bed of more than one elf. But this was amazing. She felt like she needed to bed with the half vampire laying on her. She absolutely had to!

Then he was off her. With one last lick of a hot tongue over the incision in her neck, he sat up. There was a sting, and then the pain faded. Elenloth brought a hand up to the cut. When she moved it so she could see it, it wasn't bloody, much to her amazement. "Wha-?" she asked weakly. The loss of blood made her tired.

"Self sealing," Durandir replied, looking much better, yet slightly sick. "If I so want it to be."

He still looked like he wanted to throw-up. "Are you all right?" Elenloth asked cautiously.

"It is odd to drink from the one you love." His eyes suddenly looked fierce. "I will never do that again, even if it is to save my own life!"

Durandir's POV:

Lothlorien was amazing. All the trees there were beautiful, and there was an aura of peace in the air. Durandir spent much of his time wandering through the golden woods, not caring that his every move was watched by one of the Galadhrim, and that wherever he went he received dirty looks from elves.

He found out from Aragorn that he had been in a coma for a month, and the Fellowship was getting ready to depart and move south on the river Anduin. A month! No wonder he felt great, his body had fully healed. And he also found out the exact injuries he had received. Half of his ribs had been broken, and both his lungs punctured. A ruptured kidney. Muscle tears all down his left arm. Both knees sprained, and his right shoulder had been dislocated. Considering all he did, he was lucky to be alive. After runningthe distancehe did, any normal man, or elf, would have died from the strain. But now he was back up to speed.

One of the more interesting moments had been when he was showing Elenloth how to knife fight in a manner to even defeat someone with a sword. "So anyway, this French swordsman comes charging at me, and all I have is my hunting knife. He has his sword raised above his head, and is yelling about how 'zis Eenglish dog weel perish under my sword!'" Elenloth laughed, a beautiful sound that Durandir loved to hear. "So I run up to him, and as he brings his sword down, I revert my knife so he hits my pommel. The sword sticks. So now I have this French guy cursing at me, trying to pull his sword and my knife out of my hand. Which he fails. Eventually I simply grab the sword out of _his _hand.

"I honorably ask this guy to surrender. He agrees. I turn around to throw away the sword, and he hits me in the back of the head with his fist! I just turned around and laughed at him. I turn this guy in to Fluellen, one of the English captains, and it turns out I bagged the Duke of Normandy!" He rolled his eyes. "I was rewarded well that day. Unfortunately, the Duke is killed by one of the French mercenaries who had thought the Duke was English nobility."

He saw Elenloth's eyes widen slightly from where she sat on the stone. He rolled down and to the left, drawing his ka-bar. A sword swung through the air right where his head had been. "Dammit Haldir! You know that isn't going to work!"

The March Warden of Lorien simply smiled. "I was testing your awareness and reflexes."

"Fourteen times is pushing it, man!" Then Durandir laughed. "So is it a test, or revenge?"

Elenloth laughed too. "I think you both know the answer to that question. Stupid men."

"If I may doth protect mine honor, lady, he swung the first strike!" Durandir replied, still smiling. "And note good, fair lady, that I hath not swung back."

Haldir's smile faded slightly. "Elenloth, you are asked for by the Lady." Elenloth nodded, then immediately got up and disappeared into the forest. The elf sighed, and turned to Durandir. "Do you love her?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"With all my heart, I would die for her, and kill for her!" Durandir answered, all mirth gone from his voice.

"Now, I have said to the Lady, once she told me of the love between you two, that I only wanted Elenloth to marry one of us. Galadriel took it to mean that I meant one of the Galadhrim."

"I don't see what you're leading me too, elf. And that scares me."

"You saved Elenloth on Caradhras. Without you, she would have died. That, Galadriel deems, is good enough. You have also contested in strength with a troll; and saved Frodo again, this time also saving Aragorn, when you leaped with no thought to your safety. Durandir the Dark Wanderer, my Lady Galadriel has extended the permission to being a Galadhrim to you, the first non-elf Galadhrim in the known history of Lorien." The serious elf pulled a package out from his light pack. "This is your uniform. Report to Galadriel at sundown for your first mission." The elf turned, and left quickly.

And so it was. Durandir looked at the package in his hands in shock. He shrugged, sighed, and shucked off all his old clothing. As he pulled on the suede, soft leather, and cloth uniform, he thought of what this meant. _I'm a soldier again. But now a warrior for the elves. What am I to do?_ He pulled on the soft boots last, and stood, surprised at how light and comfortable the clothing was.

_Wish it was in black._ But then he thought. The clothing was darker then what the elves wore, and anyway, black did not hide well during daylight hours.Durandir wandered around until nightfall, ignoring the looks of shock that the elves were giving him. He purposely avoided where the Fellowship was camped, and did not see Elenloth all the time he walked around.

At nightfall, he made his way into Caras Galadhon, and waited for the Lady of Light. He felt a powerful presence fill his mind, and he turned to see the most beautiful elven woman approaching him. She had an awesome aura around her, and when she saw him, she smiled.

'_Durandir, it has done you well to fall in love with my personal guard,'_ the lady said to his mind. "Come with me, and see the mirror of Galadriel," she said aloud.

Durandir nodded, and followed her through the city, approaching the fountain and basin. His mind was brimming with questions, but he held his peace. They reached their destination. The Lady smiled softly, and spoke again in her soft voice. "I would tell you of what this mirror shows, but you already know, do you not?" The water was poured into the bowl. "Come, and see."

"Yes, milady." He steeped up to the mirror, and peered inside. He saw much of what his dreams had. Agincourt, The 1944 Normandy Campaign, Vietnam, his years as a Renegade Slayer, his marriage, scenes from his dark years. Then it passed to the future. Helm's Deep, the definite presence of James. Minas Tirith, and the siege that would take place. Then it showed two more images. A small settlement, with Durandir as its lord, with Elenloth, and-

"A daughter?" Durandir gasped. He looked at Galadriel, who motioned for him to continue watching. He looked down once more, and saw him, Durandir the Dark Wanderer, one of the Fellowship, and Traitor to all Living Things. He sat atop a fell beast, and looked over all of Middle Earth, the ring around his neck. All were his slaves, and all would suffer for eternity. "No!" Durandir shouted before he splashed the water in fear, and dropped to his knees, crying.


	8. Leaving Lothlorien

**AN- Thanks again for the reviews!**

**Disclaimer- I don not own Middle Earth, or its people. I _do_ own Durandir and Elenloth.**

CHAPTER EIGHT

Durandir slowly wandered to the camp, lost in thoughts. Galadriel had said that those were just two of many upon many of possible endings for him. She also explained his world hopping:

Flashback-

"My last chance? What do you mean?"

"You have been a world traveler so that you might find a way to do good, after your gods took pity on you. This is your last chance to find peace in your life. When you die now, you die permanently."

End Flashback-

He stepped into the camp, his eyes on the ground before him.

"Well, laddie. I never thought tha' you would turn elf on me! Well now I'm all on my lonesome, except for the hobbits and Boromir," Gimli said sadly.

Durandir looked up to see the entire Fellowship staring at him. "What?" he asked crossly. "You'll catch flies if you stay like that!" With a collective click, all mouths closed.

Legolas glared at him. "Do you know the penalty for impersonating one of the Galadhrim!"

"What if I'm not impersonating, elf?" he replied.

This time it was Elenloth. "But there hasn't been a non-elf Galadhrim in….ever!"

Haldir walked up behind Durandir. "Hi adan na astaldo. Havo dad, mellon, havo dad, Elenloth."

The two elves hesitated, then sat down. There was an odd pulse that only Durandir seemed aware of. The ring sensed his indecision, and had regained its efforts. It pulled at him. "Haldir, what brings you too our camp?"

"You leave in the morn. Meet Celeborn near the river Anduin." The elf turned and left. The Fellowship sat in silence. This was their last night in perfect safety. Durandir yawned.

"Well, you humans seemed to have imprinted your sleeping habits on me. I will retire now." He walked up to Elenloth, and kissed her lightly on the lips before he moved on to his sleeping mat, unaware of the glares Legolas gave him, though he did hear the two strike up conversation.

As he lay preparing to sleep, he thought of the mission Galadriel had given him. Yes, protect the ring and the bearer, but before that protect Elenloth. The elven queen could see Elenloth's doom on the horizon, and with her loss, the world would fall into shadow. How this was, Durandir had no clue, but hey, listen to the prophetic elf queens. It's a good idea.

His dreams were odd that night. He dreamt of his daughter, who had the name Elanathiel, the Star. She and Durandir were leaving their home for some reason, with Eldarion, Aragorn's future son. Death and sorrow marked their trail as well as joy and love.

His eyes snapped open with the coming of the dawn. He scratched his stomach under the light sleeping shirt he wore as he yawned. He got up, and stumbled towards the creek he could hear running nearby. He brought all his new Galadhrim clothing with him. He was too sleepy to be aware of the elf following him.

Elenloth's POV:

She carefully followed the half vampire, not making the slightest noise as she moved over the ground she had once played in as a child. She followed him to the waist deep river that ran near the camp. And had to bite her tongue to keep from gasping out loud.

He had pulled his shirt off, and the first thing she noticed were the scars. Great big ropy ones that ran across his back, round ones that were as wide as her thumb from arrows, or worse. Ones that were thin and ragged, and others that were thick and smooth.

But then she noticed his physique. His clothes hid just how well he was built. All his muscles were lean and hard, rippling under his light skin. He walked into the water, his breath forming a soft cloud in front of his face, the sun glinting off the smooth water around him, showing golden through the early morning mists. He was beautiful.

Just as he was going to go under the water, he stopped, and looked around him warily. His eyes swept over her position, but they did not see her. Elenloth noted their color. Soft gold. His eyes were golden more often now, the black voids he used to have only appearing when he was hungry, or extremely wounded. The subject under contemplation shrugged, and fell back into the water, bathing himself.

Durandir's POV:

He returned to camp, full refreshed, the others just finishing preparations to leave. He tightened his left vambrace, again marveling at how light the uniform he was wearing felt. He was in the opinion that now he could hide anywhere, and could ran faster than any enemy he came up against.

He looked over the faces of the Fellowship, most of whom smiled back warmly, or nodded in acknowledgement. Legolas was glaring at him, he _still_ didn't know what was up the elf prince's butt. And Elenloth refused to make eye contact and blushed whenever he looked her way. So it was her eyes that he felt upon him when he was bathing.

He sauntered casually over, and smiled at her. She blushed harder. "Did you like what you saw?" he asked quietly.

Elenloth started, and blushed an even deeper red before she nodded. "Keep going like that, and it will be permanent," he said in mock seriousness. She gave a timid smile. Suddenly a hand clamped down on Durandir's shoulder. He turned, and saw Legolas, a scowl written on his face. "Legolas! I hope you slept well-" Durandir started amiably. But he was soon interrupted.

"Lady Elenloth, I hope Durandir is not bothering you," Legolas said quietly, but his hand on Durandir's shoulder squeezed hard.

"No, don't worry, Leggy! If you are so concerned, then I will take my leave. Don't worry that vacuum between your pretty pointed ears." He started to walk away, but Legolas grabbed his shoulder again, this time hiding none of his considerable strength.

"This is how you would address an elven Prince?" Legolas snapped. The rest of the group stopped what they were doing to watch. They had seen _this_one brewing since Durandir had woken up from his coma.

Durandir, meanwhile, was getting ticked off. How come he was always at the center of such things? _Oh well, always deal with the problem right ahead of you,_ he thought as he turned. "No, that is how I would treat a jerk, who seems to have a stick up his ass!" ("Harsh!" Pippin exclaimed) He shrugged off Legolas's hand, and tried to move off.

Legolas grabbed the half vampire's shoulder, spun him around, and back handed him across the face. Durandir slowly touched the red spot on his face, and calmly looked at Legolas. "One of these days, you and I are going to have a serious disagreement, my lord. Why do you hate me?"

"Because you are trying to be one of us, one of the elves, when you are a creature of shadow! I have seen how you stare at Frodo, the longing for what he possesses! And how _dare_ you say you love Elenloth, you who have never known the meaning of the word!"

The next thing anyone knew, Legolas was slammed against a tree, with Durandir squeezing his neck in a vice-like grip. Legolas found it very difficult to breath. Aragorn leapt up to help his friend. The rest of the party remained still, though all for their own reasons.

The hobbits and Gimli found Legolas in the wrong. Boromir didn't want to tangle with the half vampire anymore. Elenloth felt sorry for Legolas, but shock kept her rooted in place. "I would think very carefully before anybody does something foolish. This is between me, Legolas, and Elenloth, of she so wishes to join in," Durandir said in a voice none had heard for a long time, the deep, raspy voice of death.

He leaned in close to Legolas. "If you wish to die, say that again. And you leave trust in me, it will be a long difficult death, with much pain and suffering," he said quietly. "I had a mother, and a wife," he said louder, for all to hear. "They are both dead, and now I have found love again, after a long time. Would you _dare_ steal that from me **_elf!_**" he shouted. He let the prince go, and stepped back, striping off his tunic.

The Fellowship gasped when they saw the scars covering the vampire's torso. He motioned to a scar that ran from his right shoulder to his elbow. "This I received when I was protecting my mother from bandits. The white, ropy ones on my back are whip wounds I took to save my mother from slavers, _when I was eight_! I took this bullet," he motioned to a puckering scar in his stomach, "to save what had been at that time my betrothed from a vampire hunter. She too was half vampire. These perfectly parallel scars on my left arm are wounds I took fighting what I had considered my best friend after he brutally slaughtered my newly wed wife when we were sleeping in each other's arms."

Now tears coursed down his cheek, but his fierce tone did not change. "So don't you dare say I do not know the word of love, you stupid ass! I have bled more for that word than you have bled for any cause, in your two thousand nine hundred thirty-one years of living."

Legolas looked shocked as he massaged his neck. "My age, how did you know it? I have told none of the Fellowship!"

"Are you a prophet?" asked Pippin, completely forgetting of the past five minutes momentarily.

"I guess you could say that," Durandir said cautiously as he pulled his tunic back over his torso.

"Tell me my future!" the young hobbit demanded eagerly.

Durandir sighed. "Why do I do this to myself? Okay, Pippin, you will meet those old and wise, young and foolish. If things turn out as I have seen, you shall return to the Shire after fighting battles, and saving kingdoms. Same with you, Merry."

Haldir appeared at the edge of the camp. "Celeborn will see you now." The Fellowship gathered its things, and followed the March-Warden. Haldir stayed near Durandir. "Durandir, do you truly see the future?"

"One version of it, and it is there that I am limited."

Haldir looked at him apprehensively. "What do you see in my future?"

Durandir looked away before he answered. "I see death, Haldir. The death of you and two hundred of my fellow Galadhrim. But I will try with all my power to prevent it. Chebestel, Haldir." Keep hope.

The March Warden nodded. Soon, Durandir was waiting, second to last in line, to receive his gift. He wondered what he would receive. After the Fellowship received the cloaks, Galadriel moved down the line. When she reached Durandir, she motioned to two elves behind her too come forward. They bore leather armor. "These are the leather components of the armor that my Royal Guards wear. They will do you well. And what is a Galadhrim without a bow?" Another elf came forward, with a mallorn bow, made in such a way that Durandir instantly recognized it.

"A Welsh longbow? My lady, you do too much for me!" Along with the bow came twenty-four arrows, all made to near perfection, in a beautifully made quiver.

"The bow is designed to also be able to be fired from mount, just in case, my warrior." The Lady of Light moved on to Elenloth. She had two blades brought forth.

Elenloth gasped in pain when she saw the swords. "My father's blades?" she asked quietly. The swords in question were of beautiful craftsmanship. One was two feet in length, but the other was three. Other than that they were identical.

Both the hilts were of hard chestnut, and had a silver leaf motif on the top running from the pommel to the cross-guard. The blades themselves seemed to have a greenish tint, except where the edge shone brightly. On the bottom of each blade, a short way out, was a small spur, a curve ended with a point before it curved back into the blade. Another spur was on top, this one down the blade twice as far as the bottom spur. The blades had a gentle curve to them at the end of the sword, turning upward slightly before ending at an abrupt razor sharp point.

The hilt for the two foot sword was only six inches long. The hilt for the other blade was nine inches. The bottom spur for the smaller blade was three inches out. For the longer blade it was four and a half inches. Durandir smiled to himself. Being the son of the daughter of the town's blacksmith was great for measuring blade lengths and quality.

Durandir smiled. Elenloth was lucky, for even a master Vampire Smith would have a hard time making better blades then these. And Master Vampire Smiths even made the best Japanese sword smiths look pathetic. He went back to examining his new bow. Simple, unadorned, yet strong and deadly, just like the bow he had used in the Battle of Agincourt.

Once the Fellowship was told to go to the river, Durandir pulled on the leather tunic that was now his armor. He pulled on his elvish cloak, and moved in to fall behind the Fellowship. To his surprise, he saw Elenloth's shoulders shake up and down in tears. _Damn it, I should have noticed sooner!_ he growled to himself.

He moved up behind her, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Elenloth," he murmured, his voice throaty, "Are you okay?"

She just shook and sniffled for a while longer before she answered. "My ada, the original owner of these swords, was captured by the Orcs of Mordor, and tortured to death. Then they gave my mother back his body." She gasped in emotion and cried harder. "My mother than moved away to Rivendell, and has lost herself to grief! She doesn't even recognize me anymore!"

He pulled her into a gentle embrace, and whispered soft things in her ear. "It sounds like you have been alone for the longest time, Elen. But now I am here to help you, and you can help me!" he whispered fiercely.

Elenloth's POV:

She had just about melted into the half vampire's embrace when he held her arm length's away from his body. She looked into his eyes, and gasped. His love for her was easily seen there, so powerful it might even be painful for Durandir. And there were so many other emotions whirling in those golden orbs of his!

She smiled weakly, and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Thank you, so very much. You have given me the strength to face another day. And don't worry, you most likely won't have to take another scar helping me." Then she leaned forward. "Though you might have to take one for Legolas," she said quietly.

But there was still an indignant, "Hey!" from the Elven Prince further down the line. Elenloth laughed quietly, and continued forward, looking around at the woods around her for the last time. She would miss the woods of her childhood. She sighed, and then gave a mental shrug. Well, at least she would die in a manner befitting that of a warrior: in a battle.

They reached the river, and proceeded to load up the boats that would take them south, to Amon Hen, or at least that was what Aragorn said. She sat in her boat, and felt it gently rock when someone got in behind her. She turned, and smiled a greeting towards Durandir. The half vampire was gripping the sides of the small boat tightly, and looked uncomfortable. She laughed, her voice tinkling in the early morning air. "What seems to be the matter, master Durandir, afraid of water?"

Durandir hissed lightly when the boat rocked a little. Once it steadied, he looked up, his eyes now a soft gold. "First off, I'm not your master, and I never will be. And second, no, I am perfectly alright with water, its just I don't like boats. Don't ask me why, it's just I've always been uncomfortable with boats."

Elenloth frowned slightly. "Do you know how to steer a boat with a paddle?" When Durandir shook his head 'no,' she sighed. "Let's switch spots. I know, at least, that you are definitely a good paddler. Considering your strength."

Without any reason, Durandir winced, as though in pain. "Are you well?" Elenloth asked, concern edging her voice. Durandir nodded, but Elenloth still saw how he glanced furtively towards Frodo's boat. Without another word, he switched places with her, settling into the front of the boat.

Aragorn's boat went out silently, Frodo and Sam sitting in front of him. Legolas and Gimli followed, then Boromir with Merry and Pippin, and then finally Durandir and Elenloth. The small fleet paddled slowly past Galadriel on a swan shaped boat.

Durandir's POV:

Durandir twitched slightly again as the ring called him harder. It was getting more difficult to resist the damned thing. As he passed Galadriel's ship, their eyes met and held. '_Durandir, do not forget what I have told you.'_ The Fellowship flowed down the Anduin,passing out of Lothlorien after a two month rest. They now passed into danger.


	9. New Allies, and Old Enemies

**AN- Thank you for your kind reviews, Dairokkan and Crecy. It warms my heart to have you to keep up with the story. I view myself as fortunate, to not have recieved any flames yet. YAY!**

**To all other readers, I made a mistake last chapter. The Fellowship only spent one month in Lothlorien. Sorry! -;;**

**From here on in, the script starts to deviate from the movie.**

**Disclaimer: I own neither the Fellowship, nor Middle Earth. I do own Elenloth and Durandir, plus a few (a few, LOL) new characters coming in this chapter.**

**All right, enjoy!**

CHAPTER NINE

"-would not take the ring within one hundred _leagues_ of your city!" Aragorn snapped angrily.

Durandir simply turned over on his light sleeping mat, and tried to sleep. Those two had been fighting all week about the ring. Damn that evil thing to all hells! Durandir was very close to the breaking point. He estimated sometime tomorrow as when he would try to steal the ring. Hopefully Boromir would break before him, and Frodo would flee. He shuddered slightly as the ring promised him absolute rule again.

He stood up, and walked over to Elenloth's bedroll. He sat down next to her, close enough that their bodies were touching. "Elenloth, do you love me?" The great entity that was his love for her tightened in fear.

She looked up at the stars for the longest time. "The stars are warning me of great danger for the Fellowship in the near future," she said softly. "I think we are being hunted by more, far more, than just Gollum." She fell silent again for a while, and Durandir stood up sadly. But as he turned to leave, she grabbed his arm, and pulled him gently back down. "I think I do, but I am unsure to what this emotion is that coils in my breast."

"Does it feel like you will always be happy when you see me, does it feel like it is tearing you apart, and does it make you feel incomplete, unless I am around? For that is the way I feel about you. I would do anything for you, anything!"

"Stab yourself with your own knife," she ordered softly. Durandir started, but sighed in deep grief as he slowly pulled the knife from the sheath at his hip. The honed down edge flashed in the starlight.

"If this is all I can do to make you happy, then so be it. I am just regretful that this is the only thing I can do to make you joyful. I thought that you would have been able to see past the vampire side of me. Farewell, Elenloth, Galadhrim of the realm of Lothlorien." The knife flashed in the dark, and blood spurted into the clear winter air.

Elenloth's POV:

She had not expected him to truly swing his blade in that short, fatal arc. It seemed to happen in slow motion, the blade blazing in the starlight, her desperately reaching out to try and stop the blade. Then the blood, thick and coppery, splashed across her face. She gasped in horror.

"So it seems that both our tests have been completed satisfactorily," came Durandir's soft voice. Elenloth opened her eyes, and looked towards the Dark Wanderer. She had barely managed to grab the knife edge, and her strength diverted the knife so it struck his bare left arm. His eyes looked over the wound, eyes that were now gold with a blackened shield over them. Both their blood mingled, and ran down his arm in rivulets.

He pulled the knife out of his arm, and licked the blade free of blood before he sheathed it. Then he gently took Elenloth's hand, and licked the slash she had in the palm. She shivered as his tongue drew softly over the sore area, and watched in fascination as the wound healed by itself. He carefully spit out all the blood he had collected from her before he licked his own wound, this time swallowing.

"Tests?" she asked, her breathing rate up higher than normal.

"You wanted to see how loyal I was. I wanted to see if you would stop my attack. We both had our hopes confirmed." He smiled, teeth still slightly red. "Now, I ask again. Dost. Thou. Love. Me?"

"I do," Elenloth breathed, just before she let out a sob. She had almost had her loved one kill himself. Then she felt a gentle hand on her chin, and had her face lifted up. Durandir was smiling softly at her.

"Shhhh," he whispered, "Frath d'it welli evro hertio. Nothing bad will ever happen," he said, in translation. And then he drew her into the softest, most heartfelt kiss she had ever known. It was not demanding, but just a kiss. He slowly deepened it, their tongues gently dancing in the cavern of their joined mouths. Then he backed off, his breathing slightly ragged. He softly brushed the tears off her face with his thumb.

Then his eyes turned from the most beautiful gold Elenloth had ever seen to a harder, flintier gold. "Elenloth, I have seen the future, and I fear for our safety on the morrow. Please do not go anywhere without your weapons, I beg of you!" When she nodded, he kissed her again, harder this time, and more demanding. But he left, and returned to his own bed, leaving Elenloth all hot and bothered.

Durandir's POV:

The next morning had gone smoothly, and the Fellowship was soon on their way again down the river. Elenloth and Durandir talked little, both felt the foreboding on the air. It was in the afternoon when Durandir finally heard the rumbling roar of the falls of Rauros. The company of boats turned past a great cliff of rock, and Durandir gasped as his sight came upon the Argonath, those two statues of kings of old, guarding what had been the northern border of Gondor, in its days of glory.

They passed the two behemoths, and continued on until the reached the bank of Nen Hithoel, near the watch tower of Amon Hen. As the boats ran aground, Durandir watched as Boromir grasped the sides of his boat in frustration. _I know what you're feeling, mate._ Indeed, Durandir was finally desperately desiring the ring, only a few shreds of control left to him. The Fellowship made camp, and Durandir rested against a tree, letting his senses open up. _Exit Frodo, aaaaannnnnnndddd exit Boromir. Count to twenty, and slowly stand up, prepare to…What!_ His eyes fully opened in confusion. _Why is Elenloth…? _Elenloth had already completely left.

"We will wait to cross to the eastern side when we have the cover of darkness. There we will move south, through Emyn Muil," Aragorn was saying. Durandir slowly moved his way to where Frodo and Boromir had left.

"Oh, and it is a simple matter that! The Emyn Muil is an impassable labyrinth of razor sharp rock!" Gimli exclaimed, Pippin watching him in awe. "And after that, it gets even better! Festering marshland as far as the eye can see!"

"That is our road, master dwarf," Aragorn returned calmly. "I suggest you rest, and recover your strength."

"Recover my-!" the stubby dwarf growled. He nodded to the approaching Merry. "Pay no heed to that, young hobbit!"

Merry dumped his load of sticks, his breath pluming into the air before him. "Where's Frodo?" he asked. Sam jerked up from where he had been resting. Aragorn narrowed in on the Boromir absent pile of equipment.

Durandir made a quick calculation in his head. He could make it to the Seeing Seat before Aragorn or Frodo, and take the ring then, disappearing before even the Uruk-hai even had a chance to-

**EPIPHANY!** Elenloth! Alone! A hundred Uruks! Elenloth! Alone! FUCK!

Panicking, the half vampire turned, and darted towards the direction the elleth had disappeared to. _Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit!_ his mind frantically screamed, his sensitive ears already picking up the sound of fighting up ahead.

Elenloth's POV:

The thirty creatures, the damned Uruk-hai, were playing with her. She had already cut down ten of the bastards, but they were all laughing at her weakening state. She had already suffered several light wounds, and was getting tired.

Another one ran up to her, deflecting her feeble blow off his shield, wrenching her arm with the force of the block. It tucked its shoulder into the shield, and rammed her, knocking her down. She scrambled as quickly as she could, but was dismayed at the lack of agility in her moves. _Was this what happens when one loses the will to live?_ she asked herself. The Uruk raised its falchion for one last strike when there was a rapid shift in shadows approaching from the left. The fallen leaves were blasted out of the way along a clear cut path that was nearing swiftly.

The Uruk screeched in sudden surprise and pain as its arm was _torn off_! Durandir stood in front of the beast, panting heavily. He now held the arm. The Uruk tried to punch with the shield held in its left hand. Durandir easily knocked the shield aside, and slammed the monster's nose with an upward thrust of the palm. It died instantly.

Durandir's POV:

The Uruk fell slowly to the ground, and all the others looked on in shock. They had never seen something move that fast nor hit so hard. "All right, bastards," Durandir snapped, his voice a low deep feral growl. "Those who wish to die, come forward. Any who wish to live, surrender and let me be your master."

Four charged forward. The rest held back, waiting to see what would happen. Durandir was loose, ready to rock! The first lumbered towards him, and swung hard. Durandir shifted forwards, using what he believed the Japanese called "shukuchi." A speed that does not appear in sight. He seemed only able to use it when he was fully enraged, or defending those he loved.

He ended up behind the first Uruk. He swung back hard with his elbow, shattering the vertebrae in the creature's neck. It dropped. A sword touched the top of his head, but landed in the ground with a dull thud. He was now grasping the offender's right shoulder, up in the air. He stabbed hard with two fingers, punching through the helmet and the temple, into the brain. Before the body had time to drop, he hooked the back of the head of the third Uruk with his boot. Stomping hard with his other foot, he crushed both jaw and neck in one loud crunch. The last was decapitated with a round house kick.

Durandir dropped to the ground lightly, steady even before the bodies had finally dropping completely. Time needed to dispatch the four Uruk-hai? Two seconds. Time needed for the remaining Uruks to drop their weapons and raise their hands in the air? Way less.

He looked over his new servants, and scoffed. "You realize what happens to you if you betray me, right?" A lot of furious nods. "Then take your weapons, and stay, right, here! Do not move away, and look over your foolish comrades, and think long and deep what it means to be my soldiers." Even more furious nods. "If you try to flee and hide, then I will hunt you down, personally. And half vampires aren't very forgiving."

He turned, and stooped down to give Elen a hand. She slapped it away. "What if I wanted to die?" she asked heatedly.

"I'm sorry, but answer does not compute, now come on, Boromir might be in trouble." Again his hand was slapped away. He sighed, and grabbed her shoulder. And was suddenly caught in a hailstorm of fists. He hissed in anger, and grabbed Elenloth's arms (the Uruks were watching in fascination. "I bet the elf chick will win," one challenged). "The Lady Galadriel told me to watch out for you, and I will dammit! If you die, the world falls into shadow, so calm down."

"I don't care about the world," she cried.

"Do you know how fucking selfish you sound right now? 'I don't care!'" he snapped. "But guess what, I do! I have died way too many times for me to put up with your attitude. And I also love you too much. If you died, what would I do, eh?"

"My father died and my mother no longer recognizes me! My life is a failure, so I don't want to live it!"

"Save the sob story! I'm the product of a rape, my mom died when I will live on, immortal, and my only wife was killed while she was in my arms! Not to mention all the stinkin' times I fought, got hurt, killed, and died. And now," his voice turned soft, "we have each other to rebuild the ruins. Please Elen, let me show you a wonderful life!" He stood, then offered her his hand. She took it.

There was suddenly three loud horn blasts from another part of the woods. "Boromir!" Elenloth gasped. The two ran off towards the sound. The Uruks were left alone.

"You owe me, the man won," one whispered to his friend.

"Shut up," was the answer.

Durandir and Elenloth flitted through the trees. They were getting closer, but they had been so far away! Another three blasts were heard. Silence came, except for the labored breathings of the two. Another three blasts. They came to a three story cliff. Durandir jumped off, and landed hard, rolling. "Catch up, I have to save him!" he shouted frantically. _She should be alright_, he thought desperately.

He burst into the clearing with the bridge. Lurtz, the Uruk commander, drawing back his bow. Durandir put on an extra burst of speed. THUNK! The arrow was released!

Boromir's POV:

How could he let the ring get to him! The man of Gondor dropped another Uruk. Damn it, how could he! He suddenly noticed the Uruk with the bow, just as he released. The arrow sped towards him, and Boromir's last thought was: _why did I forget my shield?_

Durandir's POV:

Pain, deep, dark, horrible pain. He skidded to a halt in front of Boromir just in time to catch the arrow in his stomach. He gasped, but charged forward nonetheless, screaming in rage, bypassing stunned Uruks. _Lurtz can't let loose another arrow!_ He reached the stunned commander, and punched as hard as he could.

CRUNCH! Left lung now stabbed deep with broken ribs. CRUNCH! Now the right side. Durandir executed a hard uppercut right into the solar plexus, rupturing the Uruks heart. He turned wearily, pulling the heavy arrow from his stomach. Several things happened.

All the Uruk-hai still behind the now dead Lurtz surrendered, all fifteen of them. Boromir shouted out in warning just as he was hit in the back of the head by an Uruk shield. Merry and Pippin were taken. And Lurtz _stood back up_! Coughing blood, the Uruk then buried the spike of his sword right into Durandir's shoulder.

Durandir's legs buckled, and he gasped in surprise and pain, before turning to the Uruk. His hooked fingers tore into the monster's neck, killing it- permanently. Aragorn and Elenloth arrived, coming into the clearing from opposite sides. Aragorn went to Boromir, Elenloth to Durandir.

Durandir was now on his knees, trying to stay conscious. He felt Elenloth grasp the heavy iron wrought blade, and pull it out of his shoulder. A gout of blood spurted into the air, and he cried out in pain. He quickly stripped off his tunic, and licked the wound, wanting it to at least close. He spit into his hands, and smeared the saliva over his stomach wound, and sighed with relief as it closed.

He stood up, and looked over to Boromir. The man was crying. "Why did I not die? What I have done is horrible beyond all words!" He suddenly glared at the bare-chested Durandir. "You took an arrow meant for me! How dare you!"

Durandir sighed in frustration, then stood up, legs slightly shaky from remaining twinges of pain. He picked up the arrow from the ground, and strode over to Boromir. Before the Gondorian could react, Durandir jabbed him in the arm with the black missile.

"There's your arrow, now stop your bitching. Merry and Pippin were still captured, or have you forgotten that fact? We need everyone at full strength, without any self pity. Now get up, and move!" he snapped as he wrenched the arrow out of Boromir's arm.

Boromir checked his arm. The wound was only superficial. "You're a harsh man, master Vampire! You are right, but what of the fact that I may have caused the world's end, by forcing Frodo to flee?" Legolas and Gimli ran up, looking about cautiously.

Durandir scoffed. "Nay, friend. You have not ended the world. Rather, you have saved it. I myself had succumbed to the ring, and I fully doubt that Frodo would have been able to evade my senses, ring or no. By doing what you see as evil, you have done the world great good." He smiled after he clasped Boromir's shoulder. "Alright guys, I need to go collect some things. I'll meet you by the river."

The rest of the Fellowship nodded, and moved off. Durandir sighed, and moved over the small knoll, catching sight of the fifteen Uruks just pacing about. Most glared at him, and some roared in open defiance.

"Save your anger!" Durandir growled ferociously. The Uruks quieted. "I killed five of your number, not one more than deserved. And you should respect me for this. I fought them with my bare hands. And you, soldiers, I respect the most of all the enemies of the free peoples of Middle Earth. I promise you that I will not spend you like autumn leaves, which is what that betrayer Saruman would have done."

"Are you so sure?" one asked in a guttural voice.

"You would have all met the death at the hands of the Rohirrim. But now, under my command, you will show the scum of Mordor how you, the fighting Uruk-hai, are the superiors!" They all roared in agreement. "Come, we must meet with fifteen more of your comrades."

They took off, the Uruks following Durandir obediently. One ran close to him. "We may regret it, but we will follow you, our master."

"I am not your master!" Durandir snapped testily. "What I am is your commander, and comrade. Half vampires are just as hated as your kind. Let us show the races of men, dwarves, and elves that we may be respected."

The Uruk growled in anger. "Just because we were made of evil, does not mean that we are all evil. Until you freed us, we were only slaves of Saruman, with no free will. And we resented that!"

"Then show me how powerful you are when you are of your own free will!" They reached the other group of Uruks, who had thought about their present condition. They were much brighter now. One approached Durandir, and gave him one of the three foot blades. He picked it up, testing its ten pound weight. His eyes appraised the large spike on the back of the single edged weapon with approval. "Thank you, I will enjoy using this." He next received the shield, with its two spikes on the front of the shield. He put it on gladly, on looked over his new army with a fierce pride.

"Collect bows, all of you. To be able to use both ranged and melee weapons will make you exceedingly adaptable." There was a flurry of movement. And soon his unit was ready. They took off towards the river, the Uruks in a formation of three by ten behind Durandir.

Elenloth's POV:

She heard to jingle of armor approaching the camp, and fit an arrow to her bow. What she saw both frightened her and made her feel excited. Durandir was leading a full thirty, _thirty_, Uruk-hai, in full armor and equipment. Legolas, Gimli, Aragorn, and Boromir all shouted in alarm, and prepared for a fight.

"No, friends, calm down. Durandir managed to capture Uruk-hai, and forced them to make them fight for us."

"Damn tooting!" Durandir cackled. "These guys are on our side now. They will fight for me to the death. Uruks, wash in the river, and remove the white hand from your equipment." With a roar, all the Uruks charged forward, and with loud hooting and hollering all the filth of Isengard was removed. Elenloth watched in amazement as the Uruks, whom she had thought were mindless brutes, wash while joking and splashing each other.

Soon they came out, smelling a whole lot better. One approached Durandir, who was laughing very hard at his new troop's antics. "What will we have as our crest now, my lord?" it; no, _he_; asked seriously. Durandir quieted, and looked as though he were thinking very hard. He stood, and pulled his breeches down so his left thigh was shown (and nothing else, Elenloth was glad to see). On it was a solid black tattoo of a dagger, with a serpent wrapped twice around the blade.

"That is the symbol of my Vampire Clan. This is what I wish on your shields." The Uruks immediately set out, and presently all the shields had the dagger-snake on them in white clay. Most of them were pretty good, as far as artwork went. And all were recognizable as the same symbol.

While the Uruks prepared, Durandir asked Aragorn what his next plan of action was. "We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to pain and suffering." He strode over to his equipment. "Take only what you can carry, no more." He turned, grinning wickedly. "Let's hunt some orc!" he said excitedly.

Legolas and Gimli shared a look. "YES!" Gimli roared.

Boromir nodded, and walked to the river, and took off the now broken Horn of Gondor and cast it into the river, not realizing what grief it would cause.

Durandirstrode over to his men, and slammed his chest with his fist. "TIME TO SHOW THEM WHAT WE ARE MADE OF!" he bellowed. His Uruks roared in agreement. Elenloth made sure her equipment was comfortably set on her shoulders.

Aragorn took off after the enemy Uruk-hai, and everyone followed, Durandir pausing only to grab his own bow and arrows. The hunt was on!

Anonymous Orc's POV:

There was a flash of light on the road in front of the orc, and it moved forward, its weapon held in front of it. It saw a well built and handsome human standing where the burst of light had been.

It roared in delight. Fresh meat! "Human, you will wish that you had never set foot on Isengard turf. Time to die!"

The human smiled, showing long canines. "I'm not human, and yes, it _is_ time to die." Within seconds, the orc was drained of blood, and James dropped the body carelessly. Isengard? Interesting! He moved off towards the obsidian tower in the distance.

**AN (again)- Well, there's a shocker! Comments, questions? Feel free to review!**


	10. Hard Goodbyes

**AN- Disclaimer: I own neither Middle Earth, nor the Fellowship. I do own Durandir and Elenloth.**

**Okay, Dairokkan. I will touch on that subject in this chapter, and I _had_ based their breeding on the movies. But you let me give way to change. Thanks. I hate it when only you or Crecy review a chapter. Come on, guys, I only have three reviewers. Alaika, where are you? And the rest of you had better start reviewing. I look at other stories with 100+ reviews and sigh with sadness.**

CHAPTER TEN

The sound of the heavy Uruks' footfalls. Gimli's heavy breathing and complaining. The almost soundless footfalls of Legolas and Elenloth. Aragorn's light tread, and Boromir's heavy stride. These sounds filled Durandir's ears as he ran along, following Aragorn as he tracked the fleeing Uruk-hai. His own breath was slightly ragged.

_As it should be_! he thought as he leaped over a rock. He had used shukuchi, fought several Uruk-hai, and then killed Lurtz, after being wounded. And even though that was several days ago, he hadn't had a proper rest since then. He was tired, hungry, and worn. He tripped lightly, his hand brushing the cool, coarse grass before he righted himself.

His shoulder gave off another painful throb. He gasped, and readjusted the heavy falchion so it was resting more comfortably on his shoulder. He glanced once more towards the now setting sun. They had been running all day, and they had only gained little ground on the Uruk-hai. As it had been for several days now. They had already entered Rohan, and Durandir was waiting for the day with the red dawn. He thought it was tomorrow, but couldn't be too sure.

The sun set and Durandir sighed with relief. Even though the sun no longer really hurt, it was still slightly disturbing for the sun to strike his skin. _I wonder why I haven't been burnt to all hell?_ he thought as he skirted around a thorn bush. It was true, his skin was still the pale gold it had been when he had arrived in Middle Earth, despite the fact he had been in the sun for several weeks now.

His shoulder tingled unpleasantly. _Why the hell won't you heal, ya useless shoulder?_ he asked himself silently. It was closed, yes, but it should have completely healed by now. _Maybe the bone was damaged._ He rolled his shoulders, and continued running. He looked back to Elenloth, and slowed down so his pace matched hers. "How are you doin'?" he asked tiredly.

"Better than you," she replied, laughter barely concealed in her voice. "I thought those of vampire blood were strong!"

"We are, but I worked my ass off trying to save you, remember?" he snapped back. She just laughed harder. A few of the Uruk-hai behind them overheard, and laughed as well. Durandir growled at them. "And what are you guys laughing at?" he snapped as Elenloth took a swig from her water flask.

"I'm sorry sir, it's just that even our females are doing better than you," the lead Uruk said. There was sudden and abrupt coughing and hacking from Elenloth as she choked on a mouthful of water.

"Females!" Durandir asked in shock. The Uruk-hai nodded. "How many?" Durandir asked, still shocked and confused. "I always thought that you were created by dark magic in the birthing pits of Isengard."

"A good twelve of us, my lord." The Uruk then paused for some time before continuing. The tattoo of pounding feet again filled Durandir's hearing. Elenloth had finally stopped coughing and hacking. "Yes, most of us were made in the birthing pits; some of us were born of human mothers, through rape. And this also makes us angry. Why must we be used for Saruman's trickery and warfare? Can't he just use the normal orcs and such? If I was just given the chance, I would not mind being able to just go off in my own little corner of the world, learn how to farm, and continue making my art pieces."

Elenloth laughed suddenly. "You are an artist?"

The Uruk looked at her with all seriousness until her gales of laughter ceased. "Yes, mistress of stealth and death, who would never stop hating my kind no matter what the individual is like. Yes, I am an artist, and several of my comrades behind me are. Others are writers and poets, and we all like music." He growled darkly, making Durandir wonder if he would soon have to stop a fight. "Though we will never be as good as the elf lords!" he ground out in a mocking tone.

Durandir suddenly perked up. "You like music? Good, I can teach you songs that will instill fear into the hearts of our enemies." He frowned in confusion. "What is your name? I can not keep calling you 'Uruk' all the time, now can I?"

The Uruk looked squarely at the half vampire, and when he spoke, it was with a clear voice. "My mother named me Matthiol."

"Very well Matt. I will teach you a simple beat, from a song that exists where I used to be from. It was a song by a band called Queen, and the song was We Will Rock You. It goes like this," he said, and smacked his hand twice against his shield before tapping it with his sword. Thump thump, crack! Thump thump, crack!

Aragorn's POV:

He slowed down, making sure his eyes missed nothing in the failing light, when Durandir's Uruk-hai began to smack a beat out on their shields. At first he wanted to tell them to silence it, but then changed his mind. It really wasn't all that bad to listen to, once you thought about.

Durandir's POV (the next day):

Durandir glanced about worriedly. They were passing through the rocky terrain in which they should meet Eomer and his group of Rohirrim. He knew that the headstrong man of Rohan would not take the presence of Durandir's warriors well. He would have to do something drastic to receive the shaky trust of Eomer, but that was better than being slaughtered by a bunch of pissed off horse men.

He paused by a stone, feeling its grainy texture beneath his calloused hand. He gasped lightly for breath as he watched Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli moved out from the cover of the rock outcropping, and then come running back in. "Everyone, stay still!" Aragorn hissed. A rumble was felt through the ground.

Durandir gasped again as the memory of Agincourt came rushing back. He thrust it to the back of his mind, praying to God that the screaming would not be heard in his mind, the horrible scream of both horse and man. "Do not go gently into that good night," he whispered, making the vampire holy symbol over his heart. A soft hand grasped his shoulder, and he turned to see Elen gently smiling at him. He reached up, and held her hand softly, finding strength there.

With a roar, the riders started to gallop by. Durandir gaped at the sheer power each rider seemed to possess as the column rode by. _Fair of hair and skin, and each spear polished bright; 'tis no wonder the orcs fear these men of might! _he intoned in his head, trying out his own little piece of poetry. _Shield and bow of wood and sword and helm of steel; the wrath of _these_ warriors many will feel. _The strength and unity of horse and rider was simply amazing, and the column was tight, ready for anything. _But maybe not this,_ he mused to himself, his lips twitching into a smile.

Aragorn stepped out from the rocks, and the Fellowship followed, Durandir motioning for his Uruk-hai to stay behind. "What news from the Mark, riders of Rohan?" Aragorn shouted out. The leader of the horsemen raised his spear, and the cavalry wheeled about, the ground shaking with the pound of hooves. They were soon surrounded, the spears pointed threateningly towards the small group. _Oh yeah, we're fucked!_ Durandir though as sweat popped out on his forehead.

Once the horses stilled, a voice rang out. "What business does three men, two elves, and a dwarf have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly, and you shall be spared!" The smell of horse and leather was everywhere, but Durandir detected another smell: death. These men had indeed fought a battle last night.

Gimli scoffed. _Oh God,_ Durandir thought in exasperation. "Give me your name, horsemaster, and I shall give you mine."

The man got off his horse, and walked to Gimli, giving him the evil stare. Gimli looked right back at him, unafraid. "I would cut off your head, _dwarf_, if it stood but a little higher from the ground!" There was a blur of movement from Legolas, and the haughty warrior was looking right at an arrowhead.

"You would die before your stroke fell!" Legolas snapped.

"Thanks, Dimli! Legolas, lower your bow, and Eomer," (the man started at the sound of his name) "for the love of God, not everyone who wanders through these lands are spies of Saruman. Aragorn, introductions please."

Everyone was looking at him in fear, and now the spears were equally divided between Durandir and Legolas. Aragorn quickly spoke up. "I am Aragorn, of the Dunedain, this is Boromir, son of Denethor the Steward of Gondor, and Durandir. Gimli son of Gloin, Elenloth of the Galadhrim, and Legolas of the Woodland Realm. We are friends to Theoden king."

"Theoden no longer recognizes friend from foe," Eomer said heavily as he removed his helmet. "Not even his own kin." He looked to Durandir with fear in his eyes. "How did you know my name, man?"

"I guess you could call me a prophet. And I am not of the race of man. Only half of me is."

"What is the other half? And how do I know you are a prophet for sure?"

"The other half is Vampire, my lord." Again the spears dropped to point at Durandir, and only fear kept them from being driven forward. "That won't kill me in enough time, and I am loyal to your cause," Durandir said calmly. "As to answer your other question, you came across a party of Uruk-hai last night, and ambushed them, killing them all. Your eyes only saw beings of darkness among them, and you killed them all." The Fellowship's eyes showed horror at this statement. "You lost at least two men last night, and though I can't remember the men's individual names, the horses' names are Arod and Hasufel. I won't tell the future, as that is shaky at best, but I am sure I got most of the details, am I right?"

Eomer nodded, and opened his mouth as though to say something, but closed it again silently. "And you are angry because you can only spend your men in one direction, but you know villages in other areas are being attacked, and you can't do a damn thing about it. I am here to change that."

"You and what army, vampire?" asked one of the men still on a horse. "And why do you wield the weapon of the Uruk-hai, yet wear the clothes of Elvin make?"

"I have been named as one of the Galadhrim, which in and of itself should prove I am a good man, and the shield and sword I picked up during a skirmish we had with the Uruk-hai. As to my army, well, it is not an army yet, but we have soldiers. Look behind you, and notice their crest."

The Rohirrim turned, and saw the thirty Uruk-hai all standing at attention, their shields held out in front of them. There arose a shout, but Durandir bellowed to Eomer. "We are loyal to you, and will be spent where you need us, whether it be to our deaths or no. Where will you have us?"

Eomer looked shocked, but turned to Durandir. "How loyal are they?"

"They would die if I so told them to, and they would take on the armies of Mordor by themselves, if it was so my wish. They burn with righteous anger towards Saruman, the traitor who would have them spend their lives like leaves in autumn. Do not make the same mistake, milord Eomer!" He watched as Eomer paled, the man's eyes widening as he saw Durandir's eyes darken to black.

The man nodded, and mounted his horse again. "The rest of you may have the _three_ horses we have. Durandir, there is a village to the East of here that has called for aid. Unfortunately my men and I are needed elsewhere. If you could…?"

Durandir nodded. "Do not worry, we will not trust to hope. I know it has forsaken this land." Durandir paused, looking over the men staring at him with a mixture of awe, shock, and fear. "A poem to see you off, my lord?" he asked gently, remembering the Rohirrims' love of songs and poems.

Eomer looked at him in surprise, but nodded. "That would be much to be hoped for in these dark days, that I know for sure." The horses and riders quieted down as Durandir began.

"Fair of hair and skin, and each spear polished bright;

'Tis no wonder the orcs fear these men of might!

Shield and bow of wood and sword and helm of steel;

The wrath of _these_ warriors many will feel!"

He could feel the riders' approval, so he continued:

"For they ride through both night and day,

And patrol the land where their word holds sway!

So look out dear foes, and fear the land that will announce them,

Thunder of the ground will hark the righteous: the Rohirrim!"

The riders gave a roar of approval, and Eomer shouted out to his men: "We ride north!" The horses rode off in a loud thunder, each rider now sitting taller in the saddle. The Fellowship watched the riders dwindle into the distance before they turned to Durandir, who started to sweat under their scrutiny.

"W-what?" he stammered, starting to blush.

"'Fair of hair and skin?'" Gimli snickered. If looks could kill, Gimli would be pushing daisies.

"I thought it was well spoken," Elenloth defended Durandir, and he turned to her, smiling charmingly.

"You would, considering your feelings for him," Legolas smirked.

Durandir felt his eye twitch. "Have a problem with my poem, toy maker?" he asked quietly. Before the now spluttering Legolas could reply, Durandir turned to Elenloth once more. "Elen, I need to speak with you. In private," he said to everyone else. He smirked when he saw the beet-red Legolas. _Served him right!_

_Elenloth, what will your answer be?_ he thought next as the elleth approached him. He matched her pace, and the walked off behind the rocks, the grass rustling quietly with their footsteps. He stayed quietly for a few minutes, enjoying her silent presence. Elenloth reminded him so much of Mary, it sometimes hurt.

Finally, he broke the silence. "I will do as Eomer has requested, and move east, to liberate the village. I know that I am breaking off of the Fellowship, but those Uruks I have with me are not enough for the battles I see on the horizon."

Elenloth remained silent. "Elenloth, my love, for I know now that is what you are to me now; I ask that you accompany me." The elf gave a gasp, and stopped her slow stride. "I would be overjoyed, and would give me much comfort-"

"I'm sorry Durandir," she broke in. "I can't, for I see too much pain and sorrow in your immediate future. It hurts to watch you fight, for it seems that you slay for pleasure, not justice." She cried out as he slumped to the ground, hand clenched over his heart.

It burned, but why? He gasped with unshed tears. "Does this mean that you don't love me?" he hissed, part in pain, part in anger.

"No, my wanderer, I love you, but I cannot subject myself to the pain of watching you hurt yourself," he barely heard her say. The grass in front of his eyes was tinted red, and he found it difficult to breath. Why was he reacting this way? He stiffened as he felt soft hands grasp the sides of his face, rasping lightly against the thin layer of stubble now growing there. He wanted so badly to lose himself in that touch, but he couldn't. He watched with darkened eyes as she gracefully knelt in front of him.

"You could be my protector!" he argued, but stopped there, knowing she was right. He let a breath come out as a sigh, the heat of which caught in her palm, and reflected towards his face. They had to go their separate paths. He felt his heart harden, a tear slowly sliding down his face.

He stood, pulling her up with him. He pulled her into a rough embrace. "I promise, that if I am not vanquished upon the field of battle, than I shall meet up with you again when you are desperate for allies." He let her out some before capturing her in a deep kiss. His tongue clashed with hers wetly, and he enjoyed her lemony taste for the last time before he had to leave.

He pulled her into another warm embrace after they broke apart, trying to memorize everything about her. Her scent, that smell of the mallorn bloom with a hint of lemon. Her warmth of immortality, and the soft firmness of her body. He could not forget and lose himself in darkness while fighting. He _had_ to come back to her.

Elenloth's POV:

Her heart felt shattered as he pulled away for the last time. Tears blurred her sight, and she watched his hazy shape move away. She could still taste him, a strong mint that she would remember for the rest of her life. Her heart gave a painful wrench as she heard him call out to his Uruk-hai. "We head east!" his tenor voice called out, and was lost among the baritone roars of the Uruks.

She gave a hard sob as her elven ears heard the trampling of feet disappear into the distance. She dropped to her knees in anguish. _I'll never see him again! He'll die all alone now, and I will lose the one I am meant to love. What have I done?_ An important piece of her heart had been removed, and when she stood again, her face had no hint of mirth or warmth in it. "Let's go get the hobbits," she said hollowly, and slowly her feet moved numbly, out of reflex, not by will. She mounted the black horse in the same manner, and the remaining Fellowship rode off towards the spire of smoke in the distance.

**AN (again)- righteo, we won't be seeing Durandir for a while, and most of the story will be in Elenloth's POV until he returns (if he returns). If you have noticed a change in detail in the last chapter, that's because my step-bro said I wrote too much like a summary and should flesh out more details. If you notice any blank spots, please tell me...**


	11. Someone they did not expect

**AN- No reviews last chapter (at time of writing)? Sniff sniff. You _hate_ me!**

**Alright, down to business. Disclaimer: I own neither Middle Earth nor the Fellowship. Durandir and Elenloth are mine, though.**

**So please, enjoy. And pleaseplease_please_ review!**

CHAPTER ELEVEN

_He loves me and I love him, yet I have pushed him away. How can I forgive myself if he dies?_ Elenloth thought blankly as they rode on. She squeezed slightly tighter on Boromir's shoulders, and he turned towards her as the horses rode closer and closer to the bonfire of flesh.

"Do not fret, Elenloth. I doubt Durandir will fail to come back." Elenloth concentrated on his troubled grey eyes, and so missed the concerned look Legolas gave her. She squeezed a little harder before releasing the Gondorian's shoulder. The stench of burning orc flesh filled her nostrils, and Boromir reined his horse in. They had arrived at the edge of the Fangorn Forest.

She jumped lightly off of the horse, landed silently on her feet. She looked at the large pile of burnt orcs, and wrinkled her nose. _Sweet Eru, please do not let Merry and Pippin be in that pile. It would be more than I could bear._ Just the thought of the two hobbits being cremated among the likes of the orcs made the tears come back to her eyes. She stood, and silently looked off to the east, but even her elf eyes could not see Durandir anymore. Idly, she wondered where Frodo and Sam were at this instant.

There was a scraping sound, and Elenloth turned to see Gimli and Boromir digging through the pile. Suddenly Gimli stopped, and stooped down. _Oh sweet Elbereth, please don't let it be…_

The dwarf straightened, now holding one of the dagger belts that the two hobbits had been given by Galadriel herself. "It's one of their wee little belts," the dwarf said, his voice hoarse with sadness. Elenloth dropped to her knees, and sobbed with unbearable sadness. Those two poor souls, now in the Halls of Mandos. She jumped as Aragorn kicked the Uruk helmet, and scream with anger and sadness as he dropped to his knees. Legolas started to intone a prayer for the dead, and mindlessly Elenloth joined in, still crying.

She wiped the tears from her cheek as she watched Aragorn brush the hand with his ground. "Two hobbits lay here," he said sadly. _At least now we'll know when and how they died, _Elenloth thought bitterly, tears coming to a stop. Her chest still felt like someone was squeezing it, making it hard to breath. "Their hands were bound," Aragorn said as he slowly followed the hobbits' trail. "Their bonds were cut," he said amazingly, voice picking up hope. Could it be? was the silent question everyone thought.

"They were followed, but they escaped. They moved quickly," now Aragorn was running along their trail, but stopped short, "into the Fangorn Forest."

Gimli gasped. "What madness drove them into there?" he asked with a quaking voice.

"I would imagine a group of battle angry orcs and a unit of furious Rohirrim, master dwarf," Boromir stated blandly. The insult was easily heard in his tone of voice. He thought the dwarf was an idiot. Elenloth gave a weak laugh as Aragorn pushed into the forest. The rest of the Fellowship followed reluctantly after him.

Only Legolas seemed to not mind. Even Elenloth had jumpy nerves. She, despite being Galadhrim, had heard horrifying things about this forest. Things such as the rumor that werewolves and vampires still held rule in this unruly forest. She laughed, and got a dirty look from Gimli. She held up a hand, apologizing. Funny how she was afraid of vampires after meeting Durandir.

She skirted around another twisted tree, and jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun, partially drawing her sword, only halting when she saw it was Legolas. "By Eru, don't do that!"

The Mirkwood Prince smirked. "Jumpy, are we?"

She frowned at him, then raised her middle finger at him as she had seen Durandir do before. She had no idea what it meant, but Durandir had said it was called 'giving the birdie' or 'flipping off.' She did know it was offensive, and so unleashed it upon an unfazed Legolas. "I was just thinking about some of the rumors I have heard about this place. Vampires, werewolves, tree-herders…"

"I don't know about the first two," Legolas smiled as they rejoined the Fellowship. "But the third, maybe."

Gimli gently dabbed a black, sticky liquid from a thick leaf and touched his tongue with it. He retched, and spit it out. "Orc blood," he hissed.

"And this is why we don't touch unknown substances with our tongue, _unoldo,_" Elenloth said, and Legolas looked at her amusedly. Gimli, the unwise. That title fit. The wood-elf shook his head, and looked around him, his dark blue eyes sparkling.

"This forest is old," he said slowly. "Very old. Full of memory, and anger." There was a sudden groaning. Elenloth jumped in fright, and looked around in fear.

_The forest is awakening!_ she thought wildly, hoping this was untrue. But that was all she could hear around her. Eventually her eyes fell on Gimli, who was looking wildly about him, axe raised in defense. _Oh dear Elbereth, the fool will get us dead!_ "Gimli!" she snapped sharply, and the dwarf looked at her in alarm. "Lower the axe, _si!_ Now!" The dwarf blinked, then stood, letting the axe slide through his fingers until the head rested onto his lax fist. The groaning immediately abated.

"The forest is becoming aware. It was the elves who started it, awakening the trees, giving them the ability of speech."

"Talking trees, eh? What things of interest do trees have to speak about? Except maybe the consistency of squirrel droppings." Elenloth laughed at that. Despite the fact that the smelly and hairy dwarf was annoying, her heart had become much warmer to him.

Suddenly Legolas stiffened, and Elenloth paid more attention to her senses. Something awesome was approaching, a wizard if her feelings were not deceived. "Aragorn, _something approaches_," he said urgently in elvish. Boromir and Gimli looked at him in curiosity.

"What do you see?" Aragorn asked quietly. Elenloth felt the presence halt behind them. She brought an arrow slowly to her bow string. She knew they had to strike lethally, or be destroyed themselves.

"The white wizard," Legolas whispered. Everyone tensed at this.

"Saruman," Boromir spat out softly.

"Strike swiftly, do not let him speak. Or we will be caught in a spell," Aragorn ordered as everyone slowly prepared their weapons. "NOW!" he shouted and everyone turned. Legolas and Elenloth let loose their bows and Gimli threw one of his axes. Elenloth's arrow burst into cinders just as it left her bow, and Legolas's arrow and Gimli's axe were deflected Aragorn and Boromir shouted out in pain and alarm as their swords became red hot.

Elenloth glared into the blinding white light. "You are searching for two young hobbits," the wizard said, its voice commanding.

"Where are they?" Aragorn demanded. Elenloth felt a burning pain in her chest. Saruman was the bastard who had made her Durandir leave. If it weren't for his treachery, her love would still be with her. And what's less, Merry and Pippin wouldn't have been lost. She felt a feral growl build up inside her. One hot red thought repeated through her mind: Saruman must die!

"They have met someone they did not expect, does that thought comfort you?" the wizard answered.

"Show your face!" Elenloth roared in anger. In response, the figure stepped forward. Everyone gasped.

"It cannot be," Aragorn said in awe.

It was. There was Gandalf, all clothed in white. Elenloth gasped as her rage suddenly left her. "Forgive me," she said, trying to understand the sudden hollowness in her breast. "I mistook you for Saruman."

The wizard looked confused at first, then brightened. "But I am Saruman, or at least Saruman as he should have been."

"Gandalf," Gimli said happily.

"Gandalf, Gandalf, yes that was my name. Gandalf the Grey." A familiar sparkle returned to the wizard's eyes. "_I _am Gandalf the White."

Aragorn frowned, brow furrowed in concern and thought. "But you fell."

Gandalf frowned as well. "I did, through fire and water. Ever did I fight the Balrog, from the lowest dungeon, to the highest peak. It was there upon the Zirakzigil, the pinnacle of the Silvertine, that I smote him to his ruin. But I too fell into shadow, and for many ages countless galaxies spun before my eyes. But my task was not done, and life returned to my limbs. So I now stand before, now the most powerful in my order." He looked around anxiously. "Come, we have tarried too long. Now we must move to Edoras, capitol of Rohan, where Theoden is weakened by dark poison."

Elenloth looked around her at the dark forest nervously. Gimli voiced her thoughts, "And are we to leave the young hobbits in this dank, foul, tree-infested for-" the sudden groaning and creaking of the forest around him made him change his words. "Charming, I mean quite charming, forest."

"Worry not, master dwarf. Merry and Pippin are needed to rouse the forest. The trees will wake, and find they are strong!"

"Strong?" Gimli asked nervously. "Strong. That's good."

"Stop your fretting, master dwarf!" Gandalf snapped. Elenloth sadly smiled and shook her head. _Right now Durandir would seriously mock the poor dwarf._ She stopped as her chest gave off another wave of pain. She felt Legolas's hand on her shoulder, and she turned, her face now in a fake smile.

"Don't worry, I am alright," she said. Even she did not believe this. She watched as Aragorn stood by Gandalf. _Am I to fade away? Will I feel the bite of blade when Durandir falls, or will I wander unknowledgeable of his death until I find his body?_

"One thing is for sure, my old friend," Aragorn remarked quietly to Gandalf. Gandalf looked to him, one eyebrow raised lightly. "You still speak in riddles." Gandalf gave a light chuckle as they continued to leave the forest. But not even that light remark cheered Elenloth up.

Legolas walked beside her as they came back into the daylight. "Why do you treat yourself this way?" he asked harshly. "Why do you even love him?"

Elenloth stopped cold, a hand going to her chest, trying to rub away another painful constriction. _Why do I love him? What do I found about him that is so attractive? Sweet Eru, why?_

"Oh kind Elbereth, do not pay head to what I said, Elenloth. I know not why that spilled from my lips! The Valar move in odd ways, and I should not question their decision to have you two fall in love with each other."

"Yet you have!" Elenloth snapped. She stomped off, her heart aching as she wondered why she was in love with the vampire. She caught up to Gandalf, who looked at her quizzically.

"I had meant to ask you before, where is Durandir? I thought at first he was out here, guarding the horses. But this is not so."

Elenloth gave a slight sob, so quiet as to be easily missed. "He is to the east, fighting the Isengard raiders." She looked down, fighting a new batch of tears.

"And you love him." Her eyes snapped back up to see Gandalf's face, kind with grandfatherly worry. "And you wonder why. You love him because he is he, and he loves you back. You were meant to be with each other. Worry no longer."

A weight was instantly lifted from her heart, and she could breath easier. "But fighting Isengard raiders? Alone? Even for a half-vampire, that is a dangerous hunt to go upon."

"But he is not alone, Gandalf," Gimli spoke up. "He has a full thirty Uruk-hai now allied to him."

"Indeed?" Gandalf's brows went up high at this news. As he turned away, Elenloth barely heard him mutter, "So there is hope yet for the race of man." He whistled loudly and long. The Fellowship looked about them curiously, seeing nothing. But then Boromir pointed, and shouted out.

Elenloth turned to see a pure white stallion riding swiftly towards them. She heard Legolas gasp. "That is one of the mearas, unless mine eyes are cheated by some spell!"

The horse approached them, and slowed as he reached Gandalf. He whickered slightly, and nudged Gandalf gently. "No, Legolas. He is indeed one of the kings of horses, and he is called Shadowfax. He has borne me through many dangers, and has been my friend for many seasons now."

After smiling in remembrance, he leaped spryly onto the horse's back. "Mount up, my friends. It is many leagues to Edoras, and we must fly!" Everyone mounted up, Elenloth again behind Boromir. Shadowfax leaped off, and all the other horses followed eagerly. Elenloth gave a gasp, and had to grab the broad shoulders of the man before her to keep from falling off.

"The horse has never run this fast before!" Boromir stated in shock, as he grabbed tighter onto the reins. The wind whipped into Elenloth's face, and she breathed deep the sweet air. _This_ was exhilarating! If only Durandir…

Her heart hurt again, but not so bad this time. Despite the fact that what Gandalf had said sounded like gibberish, it made her feel much better. She let her mind go, and her thought's concentrated on the object of her affection. A few hours later, they rode atop a small rise in the earth, and spied a solitary hill with a town on it. Rising above all was a large hall, which seemed to be thatched in gold.

They rode onward, and Elenloth spied a beautiful figure dressed in white with blonde hair standing in front of the hall. _Who would that be? _Just as they were about to pass the gate a flag bearing the horse of Rohan fell down from the sky. Elenloth gazed at it wondering what caused it to rip off its staff. She shuddered, feeling it to be a bad omen. She and Boromir went through the gate, and the second the horse placed one hoof into the city the pain struck Elenloth with cruel bitterness.

**AN- Elenloth may seem rather emotional this chapter, and I like leaving that cliffie. Hah!**


	12. Edoras, and New Mysteries

**AN- Disclaimer: I do not own Middle Earth, or its inhabitants. I do own Elenloth and Durandir.**

**I didn't get any reviews last chapter, and that made me sad. Plenty of hits though. Come on people, your silence scares me. I'm going to stop updating if I don't get more reviews, I swear! I mean, notice how long it took me to update this chapter.**

**So please, review. And I have started a new story. If interested, you can get to it through my profile.**

**Enjoy!**

CHAPTER TWELVE

She grasped her chest as it exploded in astonishing pain, screaming in pure anguish. She slid off the horse; Boromir's shocked yell came to her as through a mile of water. She lost her sight as her eyes rolled up into her head deeply, white pain flaring in her mind's eye. There was the bitter taste and smell of vomit as her stomach emptied with the spasms that wracked her body.

Hands grasped her body, and lifted her up. The initial wave of sharp pain exploded past, and a dull tide of aching pain remained, concentrating two inches below her heart. Her body shook in shock, and her mind was blank. Unaware of all but the most basic of her surroundings, she wished to turn over and die.

"Boromir, stay with her and stand guard," an aged voice said, though Elenloth did not understand the words at that time. One thought had penetrated her shell shocked mind, and bounded around unceasingly. _Durandir is dead!_ The roaring of blood sounded in her ears as the world grew dark. She felt a soft flicker of relief as she faded from consciousness, glad she no longer would feel pain.

_Durandir led his men over the small hillock, and the thirty Uruk-hai gave a glad shout as they saw the Isengard Raiders charging towards the town. They ran forward, anticipation of battle strengthening their limbs. At first the Isengard warriors were glad, thinking that the Uruk-hai were allies. By the time they realized that the oncoming soldiers were enemies, it was far too late._

_Durandir and his Uruks crashed into the enemy with great fervor. Blood was spilled into the air, and the crash of metal upon metal was heard throughout the area. Durandir was the fiercest of the attackers, the scent of blood intoxicating him. His fingers tore through flesh just as much as his sword did, and black blood stained his hands._

_He roared as he spun around, burying the spike of his falchion into the temple of an Orc that had attempted to attack him from behind. He raised his shield above his head and dropped to a knee as he blocked a blade coming down on his head. He stood again, and kicked out the knee of his attacker before crushing it with the spiked front end of his shield._

_He turned, searching for a target, and walked right into the Orc arrow. He could not block nor dodge the missile that sped for his heart, but jumped up and back in shock. The arrow sunk into his flesh just below his heart, and he fell back in pain._

_Automatically five of his Uruks surrounded his fallen body, and faced away from him, letting no peril reach him. The twenty-five still fighting managed to throw back the Raiders' attacks, and sent those from Isengard fleeing in fear. Once the routed enemies were far enough away, Durandir was borne by his troops to the village, where they begged that a healer would see to him. They were slowly let into the village, distrust on the faces of the inhabitants. Durandir was taken to a small hut, and as he was lain down, he gave another hoarse shout of pain._

Elenloth gasped as her eyes snapped open. She stood shakily, massaging her still sore chest. She looked around the hut around her, taking in the sight of the cluttered pots, tools, and food that made up the small home. She moved to the door, anxious to leave the dark confines of the house.

She stepped into the bright daylight, not feeling the chill on the windy air. She stepped to stand beside Boromir, who was looking to the Great Hall. She followed his gaze, and her sight caught a man being thrown out the double doors in anger.

She and Boromir both ran towards the Hall, Elenloth lightly stepping over the smooth path devoid of tracks except for the occasional wagon and hoof print. She and the man beside her reached the rear of the small crowd that had gathered to see the people's king slowly step towards the man on the ground, sword drawn and bared in the sunlight.

"Send me not from your sight, my liege! I have only justly served _you_!" the man was shouting frantically, but the king continued forward as he raised the blade above his head.

"You would have me crawling on four legs like some common beast!" the king roared as he started to bring the sword down. Aragorn jumped in front of the King of Rohan, stopping the sword with his hands. He said something to the king, but Elenloth could not hear it over the wind. She leaned forward, accidentally jostling one of the commoners, who turned and glared at her before turning his attention back to his king.

Aragorn was reaching down to help the man up, but the bastard just spat in his hand before leaping up, careening towards the crowd. "Get out of my way!" the filthy man yelled, and Elenloth stepped back with the crowd, her eyes locked on the greasy haired man. He turned his eyes towards her, and his suddenly shocked eyes showed clearly one question: _An elf?_ Then lust showed in his eyes, as well as hatred, before the man continued to run to the stables. He soon rode out on a brown horse, disappearing from sight as he passed through the city's gates. Elenloth let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding.

"Hail, Theoden King!" a guard shouted, and Elenloth bowed without a second thought, her mind instead churning over the filthy man, whose eyes had also shown something else to her: _I promise we will meet again! _She shuddered, and nearly missed the king's stricken voice. "Where is Theodred? Where is my son?"

The beautiful woman Elenloth had seen earlier had a painful expression on her face as she approached her king. She said something quietly to him, tears coursing down her cheeks. The king jerked back as if shock, and gave a short hoarse shout of grief before he looked to his people. "Prepare for the funeral," he said sadly, and Elenloth gasped as looked at the king with sad eyes, feeling great sorrow and pity for the man. To lose a young one, especially one of your own blood, must hurt so horribly.

The people jumped into action, and Elenloth was lost in the chaos. She fought her way to Boromir, who was looking about him, sadness clear on his face. "What can we do?" she asked, but the man of Gondor just shook his head.

"This is for men of Rohan, not for those not native to this land. Truly it would be best if we just stayed away until the funeral actually occurred." He looked at her curiously. "What happened? One minute you were right behind me, the next you were vomiting on the ground."

Legolas suddenly appeared by her side, and his eyes were concerned as well. "Elenloth, are you alright? Do you have any idea what happened? Did the wind or land tell you of great tragedy?"

"Nay, fair cousin, neither the land nor air gave warning of any punishments being done upon them. It was Durandir who was being attacked."

Legolas looked at her in shock, blue eyes wide with surprise. They looked over her face, as if searching for either dishonor or fever. "How is this possible? Only an elleth and her bond partner share pain and feelings, not two people who have just barely begun loving each other."

Elenloth looked around her, the smell of horse, hay, sweat, and steel clear on the wind. "I know. 'Tis as confusing for me as it is for you at this point. I just pray Durandir is going to be well. The arrow did strike him below the heart." When her companions looked at her in confusion, she explained the vision she had seen. Once she was done, Legolas looked more anxious and Boromir more awed. She sighed, wondering how long she would have to put up with their antics. As it was, it took all her control to not steal a horse and make off to find her beloved, but her obligation to the Fellowship was too high.

The doors to the Great Hall opened and a column filed out, with a body being borne by several warriors upon several spears and a cloak. Both the beautiful woman and King Theoden walked beside the body as the column made its way to the mounds in front of Edoras. The woman started singing in an astonishing voice so full of emotion that it almost hurt Elenloth just listening to it.

She could not understand the language of Rohan, but her refined senses picked up more than any human could. The wind blasted by with another chilly gust, and the body started to be put in the tomb. The Lady's black-clad shoulders began to shake with grief, but her posture remained stiff and straight. The young man's body was placed inside the tomb, and the six Royal Guard who had placed him there came out of the crypt and shut the door with a final sounding thud.

All but the King and Gandalf slowly made their way back into the city. Elenloth walked along with the crowd, listening to the wind give its sorrows. Again she wished for Durandir to be with her, even if only to be held by him. She made it into Edoras, and stood still, lost as to what she should do. She sighed, and pulled the hood of her cloak over her face, hiding her tears.

She decided to head to the Main Hall, hunger growing in her stomach. She smelled something delicious in the air. Just because she was sad, did not mean she would not eat. She had to stay strong, for Durandir. She looked about her curiously, getting many stares back in return. Mainly by the male populace, though why she did not know. She blushed when she realized just where they were staring.

Even in the garb of the Galadhrim, she was obviously a woman. Being elvish, her movements were completely smooth through perfect balance, and her movements were also alluring in the manner of females. Blushing harder, she pulled the cloak tighter over her body. It was not her fault she had a more ample bosom than most elleths! Then she remembered another pleasant trait of Durandir. Only once did his eyes look excessively at her body. When they had first met, his eyes roamed over her body, praising her beauty and form. From then on, his eyes would mainly stay on her face, only occasionally straying to more…_pleasurable _areas of her body.

She almost wanted to laugh, remembering this. Every time he _did_ look over her body, she would feel all hot and bothered for no reason. Then she stopped, remembering exactly where she was. _Sweet Valar preserve me!_ The King of Rohan had just lost his son, and she was thinking of how she got aroused whenever Durandir looked over her body! She sighed as she entered the Great Hall, seeing the great tapestries covering the walls. She looked over the flagstones and columns adorning the hall, her eyes soon centering on the fireplace with a great pot of stew over it.

She got a bowl as her stomach growled, and spooned some stew into it. She looked into the broth, sniffing its tasty aroma. As she sat at a table, she grabbed a hunk of bread, and began eating. Before she could get to her third bite, the doors burst open, and Theoden, the beautiful lady, the Fellowship that still remained, and a young boy and girl entered the hall.

The beautiful lady quickly got some bowls and filled them with food before she sat the children at the table, and bid them eat. Gimli got a mug of ale, and sat at the table, Boromir joining him after he himself got some food. Legolas and Aragorn remained standing, Aragorn lighting himself a pipe. Theoden sat wearily down on his throne, Gandalf sitting in a chair beside Theoden.

"Eowyn, please, tell us what happened," Theoden ordered.

The beautiful lady talked with the children for a few seconds before she stood up. "They had no warning. Isengard raiders attacked their town before the militia could be assembled. This is happening all over the country, my lord. Something must be done."

"Where is mama?" asked the little girl, fear filling her voice. Elenloth blinked to remove the tears that had sprung up. _Poor little girl, how could she bear losing her mother, like I lost my father?_ Eowyn bent down and calmed the poor child.

The young boy looked troubled over something. "After we left the village, and had ridden for some time, we were approached by a group of monsters like those that had attacked our village. They were led by a man, who asked us where our village was. At first we did not answer, fearing the worst. But none of the creatures seemed dangerous, at least not towards us. When we told them, they seemed fiercely joyful, and the man thanked us, giving us some waybread for our travels, just one apiece."

The boy paused, and Elenloth just stared at them, realizing just what they were talking about. "These monsters, what crest did they have on their shields? Did they bear the white hand?"

The boy looked confused at first, then brightened. "Nay, they had a dagger with a serpent wrapped around it."

Aragorn straightened, amazement coloring his eyes. "Durandir!"

Gimli guffawed, and thumped the table with his hand. "Worry not, children. Your village will be liberated, I swear it. Those 'monsters' are working for the king!"

"The waybread, what package did it come in?" Legolas asked. The boy pulled a leaf out of his clothing. A leaf that had come from Lorien. "Valar be praised, Durandir is fighting strong!" he smirked. Everyone looked at him in surprise. Elenloth looked at him the most amazed. _I thought he hated Durandir._

Elenloth finished her stew, and stood up, asking to be excused. She left the Hall, and stood upon the stone floor of the stones leading down into the city. She looked eastward, wishing she could see Durandir and his Uruks. A cold wind blew against her, fanning her cloak out behind her. _I should have gone with him; I might have been able to stop the wound he received._ She hugged herself, fighting the tears that were coming again.

She noticed someone standing next to her, and looked over to see Legolas also looking into the east. "I see you truly do love him. I apologize for the way I acted to him before. I swear that I will treat him as I would treat a fellow elf, and a Galadhrim. I shall apologize to him when we see him again."

To this Elenloth laughed bitterly. "If we see him again," she said, despair in her voice.

Legolas chuckled, earning a glare from Elenloth. "Nay, I doubt that he will let himself be killed if you are waiting for him. He _is _half-vampire, after all." Elenloth sobbed, and fell into Legolas's embrace. "Worry not, Elenloth. I found that I truly admire Durandir, but I let jealousy cloud my mind. No more, mellon nin."

Elenloth smiled into Legolas's chest, and mumbled a muffled thank you to the Mirkwood prince. The doors of the Hall burst open, and the Fellowship poured out of the building. A royal guard came out and addressed the people. "King Theoden will have this city emptied, and move to Helm's Deep! Take only what you can carry, leave treasured possessions behind. Be prepared to move as soon as possible."

Elenloth and Legolas looked at each other in confusion, and followed Gandalf to the stables. Elenloth was confused as to just what was happening. She entered the large stable, and looked in surprise at all the horses, which were treated like royalty. Aragorn and Gandalf were arguing at the far end of the barn, Gandalf already mounted.

With a shout, Gandalf spurred Shadowfax forward, and Elenloth barely managed to leap out of the way as the white stallion rode past. She shook her head as the White Rider disappeared from sight. She moved towards Aragorn. There was a sudden screaming, and her gaze shifted towards a brown horse a couple of men were trying to calm down.

Aragorn approached the steed, and one of the men shouted a warning. "Leave him be, my lord. He is wild! None may calm him."

Elenloth just scoffed. This was Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Elf raised, and Dunedain trained. If he could not calm a horse, than none could. But she had yet to see a horse that was unable to be calmed by this man. Aragorn grabbed the horse's halter, and started murmuring to it in elvish. The horse jerked a few times, but relaxed.

"I have heard of elvish magic, but had not seen it," someone said behind Elenloth. Elenloth looked back to see Eowyn carrying a saddle to her own steed.

Aragorn bowed slightly to her. "What is his name?"

"Brego. He was my cousin's horse," she said, sadness cracking her voice. She gave a weak smile, and cleared her voice.

Aragorn himself smiled, and spoke to the horse again in elvish. Elenloth smiled as well. Brego was indeed a kingly name. "Set him free," Aragorn commanded. "He deserves it." His order was carried out, and Elenloth grinned again, turning back to what she was doing. She tightened the bridle of a horse she was helping prepare for a man of Rohan. He smiled his thanks, and Elenloth nodded.

She felt a hand on her back, and turned, seeing Eowyn. "I had always heard of Elven beauty, my lady. And truly, you are no exception."

Elenloth smiled in thanks. "You have no need to call my 'lady.' I am just a normal warrior of Lorien. And you yourself are quite the beautiful lady. Whatever man captures your heart is lucky," Elenloth replied, but did not miss the glance Eowyn gave Aragorn. Elenloth kept her silence, even though she knew of Aragorn's love of Arwen.

Eowyn nodded, and left the stable. Elenloth looked around, realizing she did not have anything to do. "Aragorn, where might my weapons be?" she asked.

"I believe that they are in the hut you were in when you were struck down with pain."

She excused herself, and left the stables, heading down the well trodden path to the small house. All around her, people were preparing to leave. In a few moments they would be ready to leave. She entered, and quickly buckled on her sword belt, and quiver harness. She made sure her bow was strung properly. She sighed, looking around her at the small room that had held her for a short while. _I wish I could have stayed in the city a while longer. It is truly a beautiful place. _She left the building, and joined the column of people leaving the city, heading towards Helm's Deep, and war.


	13. Prebattle Surprises

**AN- Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings, Middle Earth, or its inhabitants. I do own Elenloth and Durandir.**

**Sorry Dairokkan. Though we don't see Durandir and his men in action, we do meet them again in this chapter.**

**Okay people, I have twelve reviews so far. Yippee. Please, if you want me to bless your souls forever, let me at least get fifteen soon. So asks the distraught author.**

**ENJOY!**

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"It's true that you don't see many dwarf women," Gimli was saying to Eowyn. "They are so like the men in voice and appearance-" at this Eowyn turned to look back at Aragorn, and Elenloth also looked over to the ranger.

"It's the beards," he whispered, motioning with his hand. Elenloth snorted with laughter. _Oh, Valar. I could even imagine that._

"-that some even imagine that dwarves just spring out of holes in the ground!" he said, gesturing wildly with his hands. "This is, of course, absolutely ridiculous." Gimli's horse leaped forward, and Gimli lost his balance, and fell to the ground.

Elenloth gasped, and started forward, but slowed as she saw the dwarf stand up, muttering dark things about his horse. "I'm alright, it's okay!" he stated for everyone else to hear. "It was deliberate, it was deliberate!" Elenloth just shook her head in amusement.

Not too long later, Elenloth watched as Eowyn approached Aragorn, a bowl of stew in her hands. She smiled as Aragorn accepted the bowl, and ate some. The look on his face was priceless. Despite the fact that he told Eowyn that it was good, he obviously thought quite different.

As Eowyn turned around, Aragorn gave her a look of pure horror, and tried to dump the stew onto the ground. Elenloth laughed as Eowyn turned back around, causing Aragorn to try and recover the soup, spilling some of the steaming liquid onto his lap.

Boromir walked up, interrupting Eowyn as she tried to say something. He had an empty bowl in his hands. "Oh, thank the gods; no one else had any food left!" Before Aragorn or Elenloth could warn the Gondorian, he dipped his bowl into the pot and brought it to his lips, drinking in the broth deeply.

Immediately he spewed the liquid out, coughing hard. "What_ is _that?" he demanded, mouth contorted in disgust. "That was the most foul…" he stopped, seeing Eowyn's face, "…sneeze I have ever had. Sorry I had to ruin a bowl of your stew Eowyn," he apologized before practically running away, saying something about needing some water.

Eowyn just looked at the fleeing man's broad shoulders as he moved away. "As I was about to say, my uncle said he remembered seeing you ride to war with my grandfather, Thengel. He must be mistaken," she laughed.

Aragorn just looked at her. "King Theoden has a good memory; he was only a small boy at the time."

Eowyn stared at him, eyes wide. "But you must be at least sixty for that to be." Aragorn just kind of smiled sheepishly. "Seventy?" she asked, but still Aragorn looked uncomfortable. "But you cannot be eighty!"

"Eighty-seven."

Eowyn looked at Aragorn in shock. "You are one of the Dunedain, blessed with long life!" Aragorn smiled in reply. "Please, eat," Eowyn said, motioning to his bowl. Aragorn grinned sickly back, and started eating. Elenloth laughed and shook her head. _Well, might as well go watch the sunset._

Elenloth's POV (the next day):

Elenloth walked ahead of Aragorn, lost in her thoughts about Durandir, like usual. "Where is she?" she heard Eowyn ask the ranger. "The woman who gave you that jewel?"

She looked back, and saw that the Evenstar was plainly visible upon his breast. A faraway look came upon his face, and Eowyn waited a few moments before she asked, "My lord?"

"She is leaving the shores of Middle Earth, with the last of her kin," he said sadly.

Elenloth turned, and headed up the column. A darkness had fallen on her heart that she could not explain. She made sure her bow was ready to be fired, and joined Legolas. "Do you feel it?" she asked lightly. When he nodded, she sighed. The jingling of a harness was heard behind her, and she turned to see two riders approaching her. They both nodded to her, smiling at her beauty.

They rode past her and Legolas, and disappeared down the slope. Suddenly the high pitched squeals of a terrified horse sounded in the thin air, and Elenloth started running forward, fitting an arrow to the bow string. She caught sight of the two riders, and a large wolf nearing the guard on the ground, who was screaming in terror.

She drew the bow past her eye, and her bow sang, the arrow flitting out and piercing the heart of the wolf just before its jaws closed on the face of the downed rider. Legolas's bow also sounded, and the orc screeched as his arrow punched through its skull.

"A scout," Elenloth hissed in anger. Legolas ran back to the column to warn them, while Elenloth ran forward, to the top of a hill. She gasped as dozens of the wargs charged towards her from across the low valley. She drew an arrow, and aimed, and fired. Legolas ran up to join her, and together they slew five of the beasts before the Rohirrim caught up to them. Legolas jumped up onto Arod as the horse rode past, but Elenloth held her ground. She fired twice more until the Rohirrim slammed into the warg riders. She aimed carefully after that. Many of the Rohirrim were just about to be slain when an arrow would pierce the heart, neck, or head of the warg just about to kill them.

Elenloth smirked as she dropped another warg about to kill a rider who also had a bow. She turned, and her eyes opened wide in horror. Aragorn was caught in the harness of one of the wargs, and it was running straight for a cliff. "NOOO!" she screamed as she drew another arrow, but it was too late. The warg and Aragorn skidded over the lip of the cliff, and Elenloth dropped to her knees in despair. The future king of men was now dead. No one could survive that fall.

She came to her senses, and ran towards the cliff where Aragorn had fallen. She heard Legolas calling out the ranger's name, but she paid no heed. She ran to the cliff, and peered over its edge. There was no body or bodies visible. All she could see was the fierce current of the river roaring down below her.

"Where is he?" she heard Legolas shout at the orc who was the rider of the warg that took Aragorn.

"He took a little tumble off the cliff," the orc gurgled, blood coming out of his mouth.

She heard the sound of leather being gripped hard, and Legolas snap, "You lie!"

The orc cackled, before it gave a last gurgling gasp, and died. Elenloth turned from the cliff, and saw Legolas removing the Evenstar from the orc's hand. The Mirkwood elf looked up, and saw Elenloth's tear streaked face. He too ran to the cliff, and looked down, Theoden joining them as well.

"I'm sorry," the king said sadly. Elenloth began shaking with restrained sobs. First Durandir, than Aragorn. Who was next, Boromir? "The wolves of Isengard will return. Load the wounded onto horses, leave the dead."

Elenloth turned to the king, glaring. "How can you do that? You know what will happen to their bodies?"

"Yes, I know what will happen! But we do not have the time to bury them, or even burn them! Don't challenge my decision, especially if it involves the bodies of _my _men."

Elenloth continued glaring at him before her gaze faltered under the icy anger in his eyes. She walked to the orc's body, and picked it up, dragging it to its feet. Many before looked at her body and deemed her weak, but she was just as strong as any man through long years of training.

She pulled the body to the cliff, and threw it over the edge with a scream of rage. It fell through the air and slammed onto an outcrop of stone at the river's edge. "Lye thule ranuva anoio ywalmeesse!" she spat.

Gimli whispered to Legolas, "What did she say?"

"'May your soul wander forever in torment.'"

Elenloth bitterly left the two at the edge of the cliff, and found a riderless horse. She mounted, and the horse shifted, sensing her bitter mood. Boromir rode up on his horse, and opened his mouth to speak.

"I don't want to hear it," she whispered. The Gondorian closed his mouth angrily.

As Elenloth rode forward, she heard him mutter, "He was my friend too!" She shook her head, in anger, confusion, and sorrow, and followed after the riders who had started off towards Helm's Deep. _You shouldn't be surprised, _Elenloth's consciousness stated blandly. _Despite having reinforcements, you were eleven against the world; you would expect to have casualties._

_But why Gandalf, Aragorn, and Durandir? Why our most powerful? Mithrandir, a wizard, fallen to a Balrog of Morgoth. True, he came back, but it could happen again! What happens when we meet the Witchking of Angmar? Aragorn, one who was destined to be king of Gondor. Now dead, with no hope left for man. And Durandir…_

_What of Durandir? _she heard the voice ask brazenly.

_I love him, true, and though he has no immediate purpose for the world, he said he could prevent so many deaths, so he holds hope for man in that way at least._

_And yet he was not here for Aragorn! Surely he must have seen it on the horizon; he said he was a prophet. And yet he ran like a coward, to fight some Isengard raiders and abandon us._

_He did **not **abandon us!_

_Defensive, are we?_

_Okay, why the hell are we arguing with each other? We are the same person!_

_It matters not, _the voice said offhandedly. _And how do you not know that Durandir is dead?_

Elenloth's 'good' voice fell silent for awhile. _I would have felt it…_

_Really? Why would you? Have you formed a bond with him?_

"No," she whispered in despair. A set of unfamiliar emotions whirled across her mind. She panicked, trying to understand what was happening. _Leave my mind, you bastard son of Mordor! You would have me despair! I will not…_

_My job is done, and I leave you to rot in fear! _The presence left her mind, echoing cackles fading. Elenloth blinked in surprise, and realized her horse was standing before Helm's Deep, watching the remaining Rohirrim make it into the gate. She spurred her horse forward, and rode through the portal into the fortress.

"-paid for it with lives, but not as many as I had expected," Theoden was saying to Eowyn. Gimli walked in front of the Lady of Rohan.

"Where is Lord Aragorn?" Eowyn asked, eyes wide with fear and doubt.

Gimli took a deep breath, and tried to talk, but seemed unable. Elenloth dismounted, and approached the lady. "He fell," she gasped, and the two women hugged each other as they cried. Eowyn composed herself soon enough, and broke away from the embrace. Elenloth sniffled as the Shield Maiden moved off, talking about having to help stock the fortress.

Elenloth looked around her, and moved up the steps to reach the top of the Keep, and moved so she stood on the causeway above the ramp. She stared away from the fortress, and into the distance, listening to the people talk. They were frightened, just as she was. She had no idea how long she stood there, watching the mouth of the valley, but her body turned cold from not moving for so long. After a while, crows came in the hundreds, sensing that a battle was to be fought in the uncanny way of the carrion bird. Then an object appeared, far for even her eyes. She leaned forward, peering harder. It was a horse, with a rider.

The rider came closer, and her heart leaped for joy, once she recognized the man. It was Aragorn. The king had returned! Aragorn kept on riding, and Elenloth managed to quell her excitement and refrain from shouting out for joy. She turned and ran down the stairs, and met a crowd of people.

Aragorn rode through the gate, and as she pushed forward to meet him, she heard Gimli shouting out at the people. "Let me through, let me see him! I'm gonna kill him, I'm gonna kill him!" She broke through the crowd just as the stout dwarf did, and laughed as he rushed Aragorn. "You are the most reckless, and possibly the most luckiest man I have ever met!" he cried. "Bless you laddie," he said as he enveloped Aragorn in a low hug, patting him on the back. "Bless you."

As Aragorn peeled himself from the crying dwarf, he met Elenloth's steely gaze. "Do you know how worried we've been?" she asked, as though she were reprimanding a small child. "I had half a mind to tell Galadriel about your stunts, and you're lucky I didn't!" she said sternly, and broke out into a grin. "Because I would have looked utterly foolish."

Aragorn just grinned, and followed her as she led him up the stairs to the hall where Theoden was. They stopped short as Legolas stood right in front of them. He stared at Aragorn, and said, "You're late," to him in elvish. The he looked over his friend, and noted his…disheveled appearance. "You look terrible," he said sympathetically. Aragorn's grin spread wider as his friend stepped aside, and let him enter the hall.

Durandir's POV (a few hours later):

He ran at the head of the column, pride swelling in his chest. Now behind him were not only fifty Uruk-hai, but also one hundred fifty nomads who Tolkein hadn't even mentioned in the books. He liked them, for he had come across them, and considering some weird prophecy or another, they believed they should join forces with him.

And they were following what pleased him even more: a full three hundred Eorlingas, fully armed and armored for combat, all from the villages he had helped save. And they weren't too old or too young either. They had readily led him to Helm's Deep, once his wound had closed up and stopped hurting enough for him to fight on.

"Durandir," one of the men of Rohan called to get his attention. He looked up at the horseman. "We are just out of sight of the fortress, just like you said. What do you suggest us do now?"

"Lend me your horn, and stay here, with my men until you hear it. Matt!" he called out. The Uruk-hai came up, and looked to his leader, waiting for his next order. "Give me the banner." Durandir looked again to the Rohirrim. "Can any of your men spare any clothes?" he asked the young man. At first the Rohirrim frowned, but a smile formed on his lips as Durandir explained his plan.

Elenloth's POV (inside the fortress):

"Look at them, you can see it in their eyes, they're frightened," Legolas said spitefully. All talking ceased inside the crowded room, and all looked to the prince in anger. _How dare he!_ Elenloth growled in her mind. "Boe a hyn: neled herain…dan caer menig?"

Aragorn frowned uncomfortably. "Si beriathar hyn ammaeg na ned Edoras," he argued. _Damn right they have a better chance here than at Edoras, it doesn't matter if it is three hundred against ten thousand!_ But Elenloth knew she was lying to herself as she defied Legolas's words.

"Aragorn," Legolas scoffed, "nedin dagor hen u-erir ortheri. Natha daged dhaer!"

Aragorn growled as he started towards Legolas. "Then I shall-"

BAM!

To the surprise of everyone, a soldier garbed in the colors of Rohan with the hood over his face punched Aragorn hard on the arm. "Aragorn, speak elvish. Legolas, bite me!" he snapped, and threw a spear with a banner wrapped around it onto the table.

One of the soldiers grabbed it, and unfurled the cloth. "It comes to be five feet long. The blue rectangle with the golden diamond that has my heraldic symbol on it comes two feet from the staff, and three feet down it. The two black triangular tails are each three feet in length, and both their hypotenuses meet in the middle of the blue rectangle. This is my banner." The man threw back his hood, and Elenloth blinked in shock before she sobbed with joy. It was Durandir.

"Friends," he laughed. "Doth I sense despair upon the air? Why, why do you cry?"

"We are outnumbered thirty to one, it is a fight that is hopeless," shouted out an old man.

"And?" Durandir asked, giving a short bark of a laugh. "Don't worry, many surprises are in the night, and not all of the bad. Just remember, do not go gentle into that good night, friends. Rage, rage against the dying of the light!" he shouted, slamming his fist against the table, causing the weapons to jump. "There shall be no mercy for _any_ force," his arms swept out towards where the Isengard army would be coming from, "that stands, blocking this path of righteousness. Let's kill some Uruk-hai!" he growled. There was a roar as the men agreed heartily with him. "Follow me for the first surprise!" he roared right on back.

The whole room of men surged for the exit after Durandir, but as he passed Elenloth, he grabbed her hand, and pulled her along with him. Suddenly it seemed like they were the only ones upon all of Arda. "I have missed you," she whispered, and the half-vampire smiled.

"And I you. You have no idea how much of my time was spent wishing I had stayed with the Fellowship, and not gone off. But then my pre-battle surprise would not happen. Come, and enjoy the fruits of my efforts." She watched as he leapt upon the battlements, and bring a horn to his lips. He blew long and hard, the horn blast echoing down the valley. She looked to the mouth of the valley, and her keen elven eyes saw movement even in that gloom.

"Ah, Boromir. How have you fared?" Durandir suddenly asked. The Gondorian had avoided Elenloth since she had snapped at him earlier, mainly staying with Theoden for discussion on the possibility of Gondorian reinforcements. She knew not the decision yet.

"Quite well, and now that you have returned, maybe the elf will stop complaining."

"So, Legolas missed me, eh? Can't say I'm shocked," he snickered as Legolas punched him in the arm.

"No, the _other_ elf," Boromir said, voice tense. Durandir just raised an eyebrow in curiosity. "So, how is your chest?"

"My chest? Oh fine, I heal quickly. And my men prote-" he suddenly stopped short. "How did you…?"

"I felt your wound," Elenloth said lightly, still eyeing the oncoming shadows.

Durandir just looked at her in shock. "Ouch," was all he could think of to say. "Well, I think we should realize what it is that is out there." Indeed, the three hundred Rohirrim moved up the ramp, and into the fortress. His two hundred men moved in front of the Deeping Wall, just like he had told them too. "Elenloth, I think it is time for me to go back to leading my soldiers." He leaned in closer to her. "You should apologize to Boromir. He seems rather ticked off about you."

The king of Rohan ran up to join them with Gamling and Hama. Durandir made the appropriate bow. He spotted Hama, and did a double-take. "You should be…" he started, but stopped in confusion. "Never mind that. Theoden king, I have two hundred warriors that are alleged to me. I will take the defensive position just outside the Deeping Wall." He turned towards his Uruk-hai and men milling about in front of the slightly curved wall. "Yo Matt!" he shouted.

"Yes sir?" came the reply.

"Dig a five foot deep and five foot wide trench fifty paces from the wall!"

"Yessir!" There was an explosion of movement from in front of the wall.

Theoden looked at Durandir in confusion. "But why don't you take the wall itself? Surely you don't want your men to be killed when they could have a wall to be on."

"You'll see, my lord, you'll see," he smiled. "Can I borrow one hundred spears? A simple trench won't stop an army for very long."

"You plan to bury them," the king said. It wasn't a question.

"Bingo. People generally want to slow down when they come to a wall of spear points chest high." The king nodded in agreement. He gave the order for the hundred spears to be brought to the men digging the trench.

"Good plan. Gamling, how many men do we now have?"

"A full six hundred my liege. I think that the old men and children should take to the caves and act as a reinforcements and a rear guard in case the fortress is taken."

"Brilliant Gamling, that is just what I was going to suggest," Durandir said perkily.

Gamling looked at the half-vampire suspiciously. "How do you know my name?" he asked, frowning.

"Don't worry about it, I'll tell you once the battle is done. I think I'll go join my men now," he said as he removed the cloak from his shoulders and stripped of the few other pieces of clothing he had borrowed, showing his Galadhrim uniform underneath. There was a big bloodstain just under his heart. He looked around, searching for someone. "Hey, where did Aragorn go?" he asked.

"He said he needed to get prepared for the battle."

Durandir blinked, then smiled. "Good, then the second surprise should happen any moment now." Just as he finished, a high pitched horn sounded from the darkness, and Durandir looked out, his eyes seeing clearly in the gloom. "Yes," he hissed, smirking widely. The elves had arrived.


	14. A New Leader

**AN- Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings, Middle Earth, or its inhabitants. I do own any OCs we bump into, namely Durandir and Elenloth**

**Fourteen reviews, huh? Well, hopefully this chapter will get #15. And yes, I know this chapter is short, but the last one was long, and I thought the place I left off here was pretty darn good.**

**Dairokkan, go ahead, review on the chapters you didn't before, it makes the numbers go up. And about your question, I have already passed my decision on that, you'll just have to wait and see. And to everyone else reading this story, I beg of you: leave a review. If you all left one, then my reviews might even jump into the twenties. I don't care if you say you hate the story (as long as you have a point to your hate, and can tell me how to fix it), or even if you say hi. Preferably not the hi, but if you want to, go ahead. If this sounds selfish, I assure you, it probably is. I just look at the other stories in jealousy, especially the ones that are half as short, yet have three times the reviews. What's up with that?**

**Okay, enough raving, and on to this tiny chapter o' mine.**

**Enjoy!**

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Durandir stood in front of his men, longbow held in his hands. Beside him were Boromir and Gimli. He had told them that that was were the greatest action would be, and if Gimli wanted to take down Legolas in terms of kills, that was where he wanted to be. So of course Gimli had readily agreed. He looked back to the Galadhrim on the wall, and saw Elenloth located right next to Haldir.

Poor Haldir, he knew this was the time Durandir spoke of when he had left Lorien, that this was when he and his men would die. Durandir had sworn to him before the battle that he would try his hardest to keep the elven deaths down. And that is why he had ordered Aragorn to have the elves fire as soon as the Uruk-hai army was in range, instead of waiting until they were too close for comfort. He looked over the Deeping Wall, hoping that some of his men would be able to pull back to the pre-prepared ladders before they were all killed.

He looked back down the valley, the torches of the Isengard army plainly visible. With his vampiric sight, he could clearly see through the dark, and was staggered by the sheer size of the enemy army before him. Neither the movie nor the book could really describe just what it was like to be there, watching ten thousand Uruk-hai hell-bent on destruction close on in his position. _Just remember, they outnumber you ten-to-one now, not twenty-to-one._

Lightning lit the entire valley, and showed to all just how powerful the enemy was. Durandir pitied the men in the fortress at his back. Many of them had never seen an Uruk-hai, and there were so many of the bastards! The first rain drop fell, and another, and another, until it was a downpour. Durandir looked up to the sky distastefully. He didn't mind when it was cold, like with snow, but when it was raining and cold, that sucked. His breath plumed out before him, cut to shreds by the rain. This reminded him too much of Agincourt. The rain, the outnumbered forces: it was going to be a bad night.

Suddenly, the Uruk-hai army stopped, just behind the rock, just beyond the effective range of the elves, especially when it was raining. Durandir shifted nervously. _How did they know? No one knew about the elves, the Isengard army should have stopped at least two hundred paces beyond the wall, and that's taking my unit into account._

The Uruk leader clambered up to the top of the large rock, and looked over the defenders, deep set eyes scanning back and forth. "Hey Legolas!" Durandir called out behind him.

"What?" Legolas shot back.

"Wanna compete? Whoever kills the leader with their bow wins, loser has to collect both his and the winners arrows. I shoot first."

"Agreed," Legolas replied smoothly. _Heh, stupid git. Just because he is an elf doesn't make him the best at archery._ Durandir smoothly drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it on the bowstring. He pulled the string back, bringing the fletching back to his cheek. He raised his arm to a forty-five degree angle to the ground, and released. The bowstring sprung from his fingers, the rain snapping of the string. The arrow hissed out, disappearing into the rain. Durandir didn't bother to follow the arrow, but instead looked to the rock. A piece of pale wood flashed behind the commander, and a scream tore out into the night. Durandir looked carefully, and winced. He had missed the commander, but hit the Uruk line behind him. His arrow had buried itself in the groin of a pike Uruk, and it had dropped to its knees.

There was a thunk from Legolas's bow, and seconds later an arrow lodged itself into the breastplate of the Uruk leader, barely wounding him. Durandir sighed as he relaxed. He drew another arrow, and pulled back the bow string. _Concentrate, stay relaxed._ He reached out with his senses, feeling the rain, the heart beats of all the Uruk-hai and men and elves, found his shot pattern, and released.

He opened his eyes, surprised he had closed them in the first place. Just as he predicted, the Isengard Commander had wrenched the arrow from his breastplate and held it before him in shock. The monster whirled around towards his troops, and howled in victory. He never felt the arrow punch through the very top of his neck and tear out his lower jaw, but collapsed, lifeless, upon the rock, sliding off the rock as limp as a rag doll.

Durandir laughed, already imagining the look on Legolas's face as he had to pull an arrow out of the nut sack of one of the burly creatures. A distant shout sounded from the Isengard army: "Burzum-ishi!" They started to slam their spears against the ground and pound their shields, roaring with rage.

"Glam!" Durandir roared the elvish word for 'noise', and all his Uruk-hai immediately responded. Thump-thump CRUNCH. His men joined in. THUMP-THUMP **CRUNCH!** Soon the entire fortress was slamming out the beat for We Will Rock You. **THUMP-THUMP _CRUNCH!_** But suddenly everyone ceased, even Durandir. The night just got visibly darker. The Isengardians roared louder. Someone was walking forward to take command of them. One that was not born of Isengard, Mordor, or even Middle Earth. The person who could be mistaken for a man if not for the huge aura that emanated from him stepped in front of the Isengard army. His aura was one of darkness: full of hate, anger, and evil. His name was James, and he was full-blooded vampire.

Durandir desperately raised his bow and fired, but the vampire caught it with out even looking at it. James kept on coming, and no one else fired at him. The Vampire slowly approached the wall of spears, the rain still pouring down. He paused while just outside the bristling fortification, and looked over the defenders, who cringed at his gaze. "HAVAMPIR!" he bellowed into the night, and Durandir cringed. James was calling him out. He looked back at Elenloth, and turned back again to James, the one who killed his wife and cast him into darkness. "HAVAMPIR!" was called again, James's voice now more impatient.

Without another thought, Durandir handed his bow to Matt, and shrugged his shield and sword off his back. He stepped forward, glaring at his greatest enemy. "Alright, you bastard, I'm here, come and get me!" he growled, rage flaring inside of him. The vampire smiled, and obliged, hopping over the wall of spears.

"Oh, this will be god," he crowed, and both James and Durandir stared at each other, both transported to long ago, when they had become enemies. Durandir lifted his heavy shield out in front of him, and halted just outside of James's 'zone'. He glared at the full-blood, who had placed his katana, the very blade used to slay Mary, at his side. James was left handed, so the sword went at his right side, and he crouched, right leg back.

Durandir stiffened slightly. James was planning to use a 'nuki' draw attack, different from the Japanese sword style Durandir had learned, but relatively the same. So it would be like that, huh? Again, he held his position, and waited for James to move. He held his position for what seemed like forever, but must have been only three minutes. Without warning, lightning flared, and thunder crashed, and Durandir charged, using shinsoku, god speed, which was the speed category below his fastest. He was not yet enraged enough to use shukuchi.

Within an instant he reached James, and in that instant, it was done. Before he realized anything had happened, he was flying back through the air, and crashed into his men, stomach screaming with pain. He rolled over, and threw up into the gravel. As he stood slowly back up, he looked at his sword, or what was left of it. James had cut it in half. There was a whistling sound, and a crunch as the top half of his sword spun through the air and embedded itself into the ground.

He slowly plodded back towards James, pain slowing his movements. James had already assumed the nuki stance again. Durandir placed another foot forward, gravel shifting below his foot, and his eyes widened with shock and fear. Elenloth rushed past him, her blades raised in attack, both of the green swords glistening with rainwater. She rushed James, who had easily switched targets between the half-vampire and the elf.

His katana flashed bright even in that gloom as he drew hard and fast. The Master Vampire Smith made katana easily ripped through the flesh of Elenloth's thighs, missing her femurs by millimeters. Elenloth sagged on her wounded legs and dropped her blades, but was suddenly supported by James as he grabbed her throat in a vice-like grip. She gasped, and Durandir tried to charge to save her, fearing it would be too late, for James was a full blood, his strength was greater than Durandir's.

But before the vampire could squeeze the life out of Elenloth, the elf drew a dagger from a sheath hidden in her boot and stabbed James as hard as she could in the shoulder. He growled in frustration and threw her as hard as he could from him. She flew the thirty-five feet to the wall, and slammed into it with a nasty sounding crunch. Durandir watched in horror as her body slid from the indentation she had left and fall to the ground.

Durandir lost it, his vampire side seizing control of his actions. One thought flew through his head: kill!


	15. Final Duel

**AN- Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings, Middle Earth, or its inhabitants, so don't sue. I do own Elenloth, Durandir, and any other OC, so keep your hands off of them.**

**Sweet, fifteen reviews. Thanks Dairokkan. And chapter fifteen, a milestone for me. Yay, in this chapter, we get to see two people of vampire blood go at it. And I mean in a fight, not otherwise. So, who will best who? Who will win the fight, and the battle? Only reading will tell you!**

**Enjoy, and please review!**

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Overall POV:

Lightning flared again, and thunder boomed loudly. And Durandir grew. His physical size remained the same, but suddenly his aura exploded to three times its original power. For the elves it seemed as though he was suddenly surrounded by golden flames, and the men saw him as though through a heat wave. James gasped, but then concentrated on invoking his own aura. His rose to equal Durandir's, but his was silvered in color.

But James was still afraid, and desperate, for he could see the terrible rage on Durandir's face: his eyes glowed a solid red-gold, so that they appeared to be portals into the shallowest pits of hell, and his face was a mask of the deepest wrath, and there was death there, death for the vampire who had hurt Durandir beyond all others. It was now that James realized his mistake at hurting the elf lady, and he knew he would die.

Durandir crouched, his hand upon the hilt of his ka-bar, and his shield in front of him. Durandir roared, a roar so powerful, so deep, and so emotional that most of the elves barred their ears in pain, and so did some of the humans. It was in the very deepest of baritones, and it reverberated up and down the valley in waves of anger. It would have frightened even Gothmog, the Balrog chieftain in days of old.

The gravel burst out from where Durandir was, and he disappeared, not even gravel moving to show where he was. James's eyes widened as Durandir suddenly reappeared right behind him, and he spun, using his nuki attack. There was a heavy clang as Durandir caught the sword with the back of his sheath, and he flipped over James, flinging the ruined shield away from the towards the valley wall. Even while he was twisting after that action, Durandir was fluidly drawing his ka-bar. There was a flash of the half-vampire's knife, and blood burst from James's neck and elbow. Durandir's speed was so much, that even though he had flipped over James, he skidded away from the vampire for another ten feet, his feet spraying gravel into the air. Durandir spun, and disappeared again, this time his blade flashing to rip across James's stomach and bury itself into one of his kidneys as Durandir passed him. For the second time Durandir skidded to a halt, and he turned towards the full blood.

Then James started laughing, for his wounds easily healed completely before everyone's eyes. "FUCKER!" Durandir roared loudly as he disappeared from sight again. But James's hand snapped out, and stopped the ka-bar from stabbing into his neck, and halting Durandir as well. And James laughed again as he swung his fist, his arm a brutal blur speeding towards Durandir. His fist connected with the side of Durandir's head, and with a crack that even King Theoden heard on his wall dozens of yards away, Durandir was slammed into the ground, rainwater exploding off him ten feet to each side of his body.

James raised his foot to crush Durandir's skull, when he was suddenly distracted. Aragorn shouted out, "Leithio i philinn!" And a treacherous Uruk-hai working for Durandir bellowed out, "Release all arrows!" For, after all, Durandir was Galadhrim, and the elves wanted to protect one of their own, and Durandir's men wanted to defend their leader. Two hundred fifty arrows flew from the defenders' positions, and flew towards James.

Unfortunately for the defenders, firing that many arrows at once is considered foolish, for some arrows missed outright, and others flitted into each other, shattering or glancing off each other into the night. But one hundred arrows flew true. Even of these, thirty barely missed, and twenty hit only clothes. James was good enough to block seventeen more and dodge six.

But twenty-seven hit him with a sound akin to someone rapidly stabbing a piece of meat that many times with a sharpened file. The force exerted by this caused James to stumble back, and he immediately started drawing out the most dangerous arrows, the nine that struck his neck and chest. Once he dropped those arrows that were slick with his blood he concentrated on the less deadly arrows stuck in his arms and legs. This time his wounds healed much slower, for receiving that many wounds at the same time exhausted his healing potential.

James watched in anger as Durandir stood back up, one side of his face swollen and bloodied from how hard he had been struck. Durandir wobbled, and shook hi gaze before his head came back up to glare at James. But the half-vampire looked at James, then shifted his gaze to the vampires left as though he were staring at someone invisible. James also looked over, but saw nothing. He then turned towards the battered Durandir, and smirked. "So you have a concussion, and see two of me. Too bad for you, for now…_you_…_DIE_!" James screamed as he charged towards the half vampire, fist raised.

But Durandir focused on the true James, and his own fists flew at James before the vampire could react. Papapapapapap-PAP! To James it felt like someone had hit him with a jackhammer that was going beyond fast. But he was too committed to his charge to be stopped, and his fist burst forward to slam into Durandir stomach. James knew he was stronger, but also knew Durandir was faster.

Durandir unleashed another flurry of blows, finishing with a spin that ended with an elbow right to James's face. James brought his combined fists down on the top of Durandir's head, and the half-vampire buckled under the force, dropping to his knees. But Durandir surged back up, his fists beating a savage tattoo of hits against the vampire's stomach before he unleashed an uppercut into James's solar plexus.

But James had enough healing power left to stop that one blow from killing him, but now his healing power was emptied. He threw all his power into a left hook into Durandir's face, hitting the same spot as before. Durandir stumbled back, and spit out a mouthful of blood. But something else was different about the half-vampire. He now held the katana sheath. Both of them turned towards the katana that was still stuck in the shield. James was closer. Both of them charged, Durandir too tired to use shukuchi, but he was still faster at shinsoku. But there was still another complication. Durandir saw _two_ shields with a katana stuck in them. Now it wasn't just a race to see who reached the blade first, it was a trial to see if Durandir could see the right shield. And whoever won the race won the battle, for even in his weakened state, James could single-handedly kill at least half the defenders, and he still had ten thousand Uruk-hai backing him up.

All these thoughts and more whirled through Durandir's aching head as he ran desperately to what seemed to be the shield James was running for. He just barely got ahead of the vampire, and his hand reached out towards the hilt. His hand grabbed onto the coarse hilt wrappings, and he flipped over the shield, clutching the sword. He landed, then pulled the shield over his hand, wrenching the blade out of it and sending the shield flying behind him. All the teachings of his sword style, the Hiten Mitsurugi-ryu (**AN- this sword style is one that is used by Himura Kenshin in the manga/anime Rurouni Kenshin, and was thought up by Nobuhiro Watsuki, a man I respect very much. I do not own it, but thought that someone as old as Durandir would try to learn one of the best swordsmanship skills possible. The next chapter I will include it in the normal disclaimer. Thanks!)**, came back to him.

He brought the katana up towards James, who wasn't able to stop his charge. "Die now!" he hissed as his sword blurred with the rapid strikes he preformed. "Ryusosen, Dragon's Nest Strike!" It was the rapid strike, but he controlled it so it did not kill, but wounded only. Blood sprayed from all the wounds James had received, drenching Durandir and the ground around him. "Soryusen!" he shouted again as he sheathed his weapon and spun, unleashing his own nuki attack, only his style named it Battojutsu. His sword hissed out of his sheath, and it slashed across James's chest, barely missing his heart. But that was how Durandir had planned it. The second part of Soryusen, the 'Double Dragon Strike,' was the sheath, which came around and slammed James right in the head, flipping him as well as knocking him senseless.

Durandir strode up to the vampire, and grabbed him by the shoulders. He lifted James up, and sunk his teeth into the neck of the vampire. The legend that if you eat the heart of your enemy, you get his power originally came from the vampires, who would get the powers another vampire if they drank their blood.

Once he had drunk enough, Durandir dropped James, and walked away. James stood back up, even paler through loss of blood. But Durandir wanted him to stand up. He spun, and charged towards the wavering vampire. "Hiten Mitsurugi-ryu succession technique! Amakakeru Ryu No Hirameki! Dragon Flight of Heaven strike!" This was the fastest strike Durandir knew, besides his Shunten-satsu, the Instant Heaven Kill. It was faster even than his Battojutsu, which itself was barely visible except by the well trained. The main secret of it was that it combined the draw attack, which was faster than a normal swing, and a forward step at the time of drawing, which accelerated it even more. It was so powerful that if the first strike was blocked, a vacuum was created, pulling in the opponent. And then the spin from the speed and force of the first strike would add centrifugal force to the second strike, making that more powerful than even the first one.

Just before Durandir reached the near dead vampire, James shouted out, "DRAGON!" Then the sword slammed into the hip of James, and tore through his body with so much force that his body was flung into the air, body split from hip to shoulder, barely one piece anymore.

Durandir gasped and stumbled as the pain caught up to him at the sudden loss of all adrenaline in his system. He was so tired, and wanted so desperately to sleep in peace. Shock also slammed into his body, making the world go dim. Cold, why did it get so cold?

"Leithio i philinn!" Aragorn shouted again, and Durandir was barely aware of the now onrushing Uruk-hai. The elven arrows arched towards the Isengardians, and Durandir turned to his men, who had arrows already fitted to their bows.

"FIRE!" Matt shouted, and one hundred fifty arrows joined the two hundred elven ones. Durandir stumbled towards his lines, desperate to join his men and find Elenloth, and make sure she was alive. _Elenloth!_ his mind screamed in desperation as he started to run. She had to be alright, she had to be…


	16. Lithe as a Snake

**AN- Okay people, I wrote this 2000 plus word chapter in one day, so you had better be happy! Disclaimer: if you really need one, go to the previous chapter for it.**

**Thank you to my wonderful reviewers who have been loyal all this time. Hopefully you will enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it.**

**Oh, I nearly forgot. Addition to disclaimer: The sword style used by Durandir is Hiten Mitsurugi-ryu, a sword style invented by a man named Nobuhiro Watsuki. It is his, not mine. Give him the credit of all the nasty stuff you can do with a katana. Wink wink, grin grin, say no more, say no more!**

**Enjoy, and please review.**

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Uruk-hai fell as a heavy elven arrow crashed into its neck. It was not alone. The Isengard army was less concerned with the arrows from the humans, for they were more for area affect, not precision shooting. But the elves were slaughtering them with no mercy, dropping Uruk-hai with an arrow to the head, or neck, or armpit. "Shields!" one of them roared, and all that had them brought them up. Many of those that didn't died. "Get closer!" another roared. If they got close, they could at least inflict casualties upon their enemies.

Durandir shoved his way through his men, trying desperately to get to the area where Elenloth had fallen. He reached her, and slid to a halt, going to one knee in his haste. Two of his men knelt beside her, trying to rouse her, her legs already bandaged. "They're through the spears!" someone shouted, and the firing tempo changed, the arrows being sent out were more aimed instead of the mass volleys. Within seconds, there was a loud crunch, and the ringing of metal upon metal and the ripping of metal upon flesh.

"Khazad! Khazad-ai menu!" Gimli roared, and Boromir shouted out, "For Gondor!" Durandir's Uruk-hai acted as a buffer between the Isengard forces and the defenders, letting the men use bows still, firing point blank range. There were screams from both Uruk-hai and men. Some crossbow bolts snapped over Durandir's men, and hit the elven ranks. Elven voices raised in pain and death.

"You two, get her too the Keep, and into the caves! Lift her on the count of three. Ready? One, two, thr…" Elenloth's eyes snapped open. At first she looked about in panic, but seeing Durandir's face, she relaxed. Durandir sighed in relief. She was still alive and conscious.

Aragorn was shouting from the Deeping Wall, "The ramp, the ramp! Leithio i philinn!" Some of the elven fire was shifted to the ramp, where the Uruk-hai tortoise was bringing the ram to the aged gate.

"Durandir! I can fight with my bow! Let me stay, please!" Elenloth shouted over the noise.

"Second rank, swords!" Matt shouted out, and the first rank of men behind the Uruk-hai drew their swords and surged forward, joining the melee with a roar. Durandir thought desperately, but there was too much noise, too much confusion.

"Fine," he told Elenloth, "but when we pull back, you are the first up that ladder! Don't wait for me." She nodded, and he quickly kissed her, before returning to the raging line. He assisted one of his Uruk-hai by unleashing a Soryusen, ripping the sword Uruk in half. He ducked the blade of another, and ripped it to shreds with the Ryusosen. In the chaos, he was glad that he had all his Uruks put on a white armband. Even with that, he was sometimes confused, especially since his vision would sometimes double unexpectedly.

A brutal fist slammed into his stomach, and he skidded back a few feet. A berserker stood before him, roaring in anger as it swung its heavy blade. Durandir blocked, and flipped up onto the blade, his weight dropping the end into the ground. Before the berserker could react, Durandir dashed up the blade and decapitated it with one smooth move. As the body slowly dropped, he ran up and leapt off of it into the air, searching for a target. He selected one of the Isengard commanders, distinctive by the large crest on its helmet.

"Ryutsuisen! Dragon-Hammer Strike!" he shouted as he brought the sword down hard on the head of the officer, the force of the blow splitting it from the top of its head to its lower stomach.

The second his feet touched the ground, he spun around and ducked under the guard of an Uruk-hai behind him. "Ryushosen!" he bellowed as he caught the dull back of the sword, and pushed up with all his might. The 'Dragon Flight Strike' was powerful enough that the sword literally sheared off the front of the Uruk's face. He spun again, slamming his sword onto the ground, sweeping a bucket full of gravel towards the Uruk-hai charging him. "Doryusen! Earth-Dragon Strike!" he intoned as the rocks blasted through the Uruk-hai like grapeshot fired from a cannon.

He leapt, and landed behind his own line of defense. He stood, panting. It had been over one hundred years since he had used a katana, and now he was unleashing some of his best moves. He growled in frustration as he watched the ram pound at the gate. But to no avail, for there were too many of them! He screamed with rage as he launched back into the fray, his blade flashing with countless attacks. Arrow after elven arrow flitted over his head in the darkness, and he distantly heard Theoden shouting something. "MY LORD!" Matt screamed in his face. He jumped slightly, and placed the blunt edge of his sword on the Uruk's shoulder, and slid it forward hard, stabbing through the chest of an Isengard trooper running up behind them. "The gate has been breached! Theoden calls for retreat! Your order?"

"Get the men back in an orderly fashion! No panicking," he shouted. "Get us out of here, Matt. I'll cover you!" Matt nodded, and Durandir spun, concentrating on attacking with normal slashes and stabs, not using any of his special attacks. As his men withdrew, it seemed as though more and more Isengard Uruks appeared around Durandir, and his attacks grew more and faster to keep up with the pace. But still, Uruk-hai managed to hit him, mostly with small nicks, but with a few good cuts.

Finally only his Uruk-hai remained in front of the wall, and the Isengardians were slowly driven back by the elven arrows, who were firing more for speed than accuracy. Gimli appeared at Durandir's side, and Durandir looked around, trying to spot Boromir. But the Gondorian wasn't in sight. "Gim! Where's Boromir?" he snapped urgently.

"Last I saw him, he was surrounded further down the wall. Leave him laddie! There's no way it is humanely possible for you to reach him in time!"

"But I'm only half human, Gimli. Matt! Pull the ladders up when the last rank is up, I've got to go rescue a friend." Matt nodded as he slammed his sword into the head of another Uruk.

"Go, sir, I've got this," he roared as he slammed the spikes of his shield into the chest of a berserker. Durandir turned, and sprinted as fast as he could, using the fastest of his Shinsoku, darting between the stunned Uruk-hai.

Boromir's POV:

He was tired, there was no doubt about that. But he had taken out fourteen Isengard Uruks in the last five minutes, and the bodies littered the ground all around him. And though he was tired, all he had to do was get over to the wall, and get up one of the ladders. He deflected a swing from one of the Uruk swordsmen, and brought his blade down with a heavy andsatisfying crunch. He then turned to the wall, fully prepared to force his way over there and get behind the safety of a ton of stone. But what he saw stopped him cold. _The ladders were being pulled up the wall!_ "No!" he shouted fiercely, and cut down another Uruk-hai who stood in his way. There was no way this was happening. He was the son of a Steward of Gondor, and he was going to be killed because some elves had forgotten about him.

He turned towards a group of Uruks who were charging him in rage. This was the end, and he knew it. If only he could have seen his father, and Faramir, just one more time. He raised his shield and sword, prepared for his death. But he was not prepared for what happened next.

There was a flash of flawless steel, and the rearmost Uruk-hai in the group dropped as they were cut in two. The blade was held by a figure whose body seemed to be seen through a heat wave because of the speeds he moved. The enraged Uruks were killed before they could fully understand what was happening to them. The figure appeared back into sight, and it was Durandir! The half-vampire flicked his blade out to the side, removing the blood from the metal.

Boromir hadn't really seen the battle between Durandir and the other vampire because of the speeds they were moving, but he had only thought Durandir was fast yet brutal. Now he danced with a frightening grace with the new blade he held. He was as lithe as a snake, as strong as a dragon, and many times faster than the fastest eagle.

Suddenly he was flying through the air! Durandir had picked him up, and leaped towards the wall, where the elves were desperately firing their bows at the berserkers who were coming up on the ladders. Durandir landed on the head of one of the Uruks, and began running to the wall, trying to keep his balance while the Uruks collapsed and twisted under their combined weight. "Dammit Boromir! You need to lose some weight!" Durandir growled as he reached the wall.

Boromir felt Durandir build up his strength in his forearms, and realized with a shock what he planned to do. "No, don't," Boromir pleaded. "I'm afraid of…" Durandir threw him towards the top of the wall, causing Boromir to yell the last word, "HEIGHTS!" The Gondorian barely caught onto the wall, and was pulled to safety by a couple of elves. He turned and watched as Durandir flew up the wall, his hands effortlessly catching onto the small crags and bumps in the wall.

The half-vampire leaped up onto the wall, and ran to one of the ladders used by the Uruk-hai. He pushed the ladder hard to the side and watched as it created a domino effect with the other ladders. He turned to Aragorn, who stabbed another Uruk-hai through the chest. "Aragorn, I just bought some time. Have the rear ranks of these elves keep their bows and provide close fire support. You'll thank me later. After all, it is hard for a heavily armored soldier to climb up a ladder if his head will get shot the second it comes into view, right?" he grinned evilly. Boromir could not agree more.

Durandir's POV:

Durandir ran to the edge of the wall, and looked into the Hornburg, where his men waited, patiently binding each others' wounds. Durandir winced as he looked over his men, familiar faces missing. "Matt, take the men, and go assist the gate. I'll join you there!" Just like always, Matt nodded, and his men took off, shouting a war cry. Durandir returned to the wall, and watched as the berserker with the torch charged towards the culvert.

_They're getting desperate. They have run out of options. Good._ "Togo han dad, Legolas! Dago hon! Dago hon!" Aragorn shouted as Legolas released the two arrows into the chest of the monster. But that didn't slay it.

Durandir could _feel_ the eyes of all the elves on his back as he climbed to the top of the wall and leaped off. His course was right, and his blade flickered in the bright phosphorous burning of the torch. "Ryutsuisen-zan!" he shouted just as the Uruk jumped, right below him. The Ryutsuisen-zan was just like the Dragon-Hammer Strike, only this time, it had tragedy added at the end of the name. It was known for the fact that it was not a slashing attack; rather, it was a piercing attack, one which the sword stabs through the top of the head, and exits at the bottom of the jaw. Needless to say, the Uruk-hai Berserker did not finish its jump.

_Hah! Blow us up now, ya scumbags!_ Durandir thought triumphantly as he stabbed the torch's flame into the mud, putting it out with a loud sizzle. He quickly threw it back over the wall to the elven side, where no Uruk could yet get it.

He literally cackled as he scrambled back up the wall as he heard at first the confused exclamations of the Isengard army behind him then their angered roars. "Elves," Durandir shouted as he crested the wall. "Target the torches. Don't let them reach the drain!" Immediately the elven arrows sang out to kill all the torches which could be dangerous, then moving out to hit all the other ones. Durandir smiled. _I've got two bombs now. Yay!_


	17. Is this the end?

**AN- Disclaimer: I don't own Middle Earth or its inhabitants. I wish I did, but I do own Durandir, Elenloth, and any other OC in this story. That, at least, is consolation. Sorry for the wait as well. New computer restrctions, etc.**

**Anyway, enjoy and please review!**

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Durandir sprinted to the top of the stairwell, trying to get to the top of the Keep. The giant ladders would be going up any second now. He heard the clanging of sword upon sword behind him, and he grinned wickedly. Without the berserkers to tilt the battle to their advantage, the Uruk-hai were getting slaughtered mercilessly. _Gods, I just hope Elenloth stays alive. I would not be able to bear it if she died._

He rounded the corner, and brushed past humans who were bustling about, most heading to the gate to help the defense. "Those Uruk-hai need our help! Move, go, go!" one of them shouted, and Durandir smiled wider. Evidently his Uruks were defending the gate with the help of the humans. Sweet.

He reached the parapet just as the first of the ballistae grappling hooks shot over the wall. He winced as one of the Rohirrim were caught in the chest with one. Blood spurted warmly into the air, but he ignored it, trying to reach the wall over the parapet. He burst into shinsoku the last fifty feet, and skidded to a halt. One of the giant ladders slammed into the keep, and Uruks leapt off of it like maggots from an open wound. Durandir reached the two iron grappling hooks from another tower, and he swung his sword down hard at one of them. "Zantetsu!" he shouted, the steel katana slicing through the iron as though it wasn't there. There was a giant slithering snap as the thick rope whipped out into the night, and the great ladder tilted dangerously to one side before it fell backward, amid the loud curses of the Uruks.

But two more were going up, and Durandir could see that he could not reach them before they went over the apex of their path. Durandir felt a hostile presence behind him, and he whipped around, snapping out with his sword. The Uruk swordsman that had been attacking him fell, clutching its chest as its blood surged out of its chest, staining its black armor even more.

He turned towards the ladders again to see a green fletched arrow snap through one of the ropes. The ladder also twisted wickedly before falling backwards, crushing dozens of Uruk-hai that were waiting below. That was one of Legolas's arrows, and the Mirkwood elf had shot his bow from the Deeping Wall, an amazing distance for a well placed shot in the dark.

There was another crash as the last ladder slammed into the Keep, disgorging even more Uruk-hai. A frenzied group charged the half-vampire, slamming men out of the way, leaving them to be torn apart by other Uruks behind them. Durandir burst forward, and leapt into the air, his sword hissing through the air in a brutal arc to cut deeply into the inner shoulder of the leading Uruk. He slammed his hand onto the back of the sword, completely slicing off the arm of the Uruk, as well as a good portion of its chest. The blood didn't even spurt into the air, and instead gushed out of the massive wound in torrents, coating the stone work in the vile substance. The smell intoxicated Durandir, and his vampire side started to take over, and his battle wearied body shivered in pleasure at the scent.

The Uruk-hai barely paused at the brutal death of their leader, and continued charging forward. Durandir whipped his blade around so that its tip was pointing directly at the throat of the Uruk at the front. It didn't have time to stop, and instead skidded right into the blade. Durandir savagely tore the katana to the side, tearing through the Uruk's throat, and decapitating the next. He turned again, the katana screeching against the ground, sparks flaring into the air. He caught the next Uruk-hai in the hip and sliced through it diagonally, cutting through its heart, and adding its blood to the air, to the aroma.

He paused, and realized that though the battle still raged, there was a circle of space around him that the Uruks wouldn't go into. He laughed, his voice deep and hollow. "Who wants to die first?" he asked, raising his sword. The Uruks all stepped back slightly, and again he laughed. "Run," he ordered, and they did, some going to fight the humans, some going back down the ladders. _Okay, where's Aragorn? Uh, he, Gimli, Legolas, and Boromir are still on the Deeping Wall, I think. He might have joined up with Theoden._

"Fall back!" someone shouted, and Durandir looked around in a daze at all the bodies around him. "Shit!" he growled as he ran towards the gate. They were giving the Uruk-hai a foothold. Though they could still fight against the Uruks for a while, they had still lost a valuable position.

He ran down the steps to the gate, where a desperate melee was taking place. Aragorn and Gimli had indeed gone here, and were fighting alongside his men, who were happily fighting against their Isengard kin. Theoden was leaning against the wall, breathing heavily and clutching his shoulder.

Suddenly all the Isengardians shouted, and the attack slowed down, before ending all together. "We won?" Theoden asked in surprise.

Durandir scoffed in anger. "No my liege, they are simply preparing for another assault." He flicked the blood off of his blade before sheathing it. He stood casually, covered in blood, mud, and water, looking particularly filthy. "Let my men hold the gate, you need all the men you can to defend against the ladders, and I can hold this gate better than you can, no offense meant, sire."

Theoden hesitated, looking distrustful. "How can I trust the honor of your men, half-vampire?" he spat the last words.

"Ask Aragorn," Durandir calmly replied, staring deep into Theoden's eyes. The old king could not bear the gaze for long, turning away in shame.

"Fine, but don't fail me, Durandir!"

Durandir grinned widely, a dangerous light flickering in his eyes. "I wouldn't think of it, Theoden King."

Theoden sighed as he turned to his tired men. "We fall back to the Keep," he said as he moved back. "The half-vampire and his men will hold the gate. Let's go!"

Durandir looked over his men. "Matt, how many have we lost?" he asked anxiously.

Matt stood up from tending the arm wound of one of the men. "So far we have lost nine and ten, some seven Uruk-hai and twelve men."

"Better than I thought, guys. You've done great! Alright, second company and second platoon, I want you to act as a vanguard for the elves. Stay on the elven side of the door, and let none through but me, Aragorn, or Theoden. Understood?" Half the men and Uruks roared in acknowledgement. They immediately ran after the retreating humans while Durandir turned to the remaining half of his men.

"Okay, Uruk-hai up front, shields in a tortoise manner. Kneel, so your shields offer maximum protection. And span from wall to wall. Hurry, we only have a few minutes!" Indeed, the sounds of Isengard soldiers moving quickly towards the doors could be heard. "Men, stand behind the tortoise in eight ranks of eight men. I'll lead the first line. The five extras, you'll be runners for new arrows." Durandir pulled out his bow. His men quickly got organized.

The clatter of armor rang down the short corridor as the Isengard Uruks charged. "First rank, ready!" Durandir yelled as he strung an arrow. Eight arrows were snapped to bow strings. "Who are we?" Durandir demanded.

"WARRIORS!"

"What is our job?" The Uruks could be seen through the gate.

"TO FIGHT!"

"First rank, release!" Durandir bellowed as his bow came smoothly up. Nine arrows snapped out and buried themselves into the Uruk-hai, who howled in pain and surprise. "First rank, down!" And his men ducked to show the Uruk-hai another rank of men. "Second rank, fire!" Another eight arrows flitted out to hit the Uruks. "Second rank down; third rank, fire!" Durandir shouted as the first rank loaded more arrows to their bows. Once the arrows snapped over their heads, Durandir shouted, "First rank, stand and fire!" He stood with the eight other men, and brought his bow up. Draw, release, neck hit! This time around he didn't have to give any orders. Once the men knew what he wanted, they continued on their own will. His row of men dropped and waited patiently for the other two rows to fire before standing and firing again. Draw, release, center mass! Again they dropped, and waited, peering over the shields at the growing mound of dead Isengard troopers. _Their aim is getting sloppier, I'll need to rotate them. _Draw, release, head!

"First three ranks, fall to the rear. The rest of you forward to the shield line!" The third rank moved first, heading down the space left between the left flank of his half-unit and the wall. The rest of the unit moved forward. Durandir noticed all of this as he continued to fire as quickly as he could at the advancing Uruks. Durandir waited until the last rank moved out before he too sprinted away to the rear.

He stood, panting slightly as he heard the first of the volleys snap out, and the death cries of several Uruks. "Sir! A messenger from Theoden," one of his men shouted.

A Rohan soldier stood waiting in bloodstained armor, and he looked entirely exhausted. He snapped to attention at the sight of Durandir, and Durandir could see the awe in the eyes of the man. "Your message?" he asked sharply. He did not have time to wait.

The man nodded, and looked nervously behind him. "We men," emphasis on the word men, "are being forced back to the main hall. You only have a few minutes to get out of here. Theoden orders that you hurry as fast as possible."

"Good, he does care of the fate of at least me. Return you to your liege, and tell him this: I understand, and will move once this attack ceases." He smiled, clapping his hand upon the shoulder of the man, who looked not to be older than twenty-five. "There is still hope. Be strong, and fight well. Go!" Durandir said, looking deep into the eyes of the man, as one warrior to another. The man nodded, and drew his bloody sword before heading back up towards the stairs.

Durandir turned to his own men as they continued to fire bows at the oncoming Uruks. "Cease fire!" Durandir bellowed as he drew his sword. His men followed his lead. "Come, let us bathe our blades and not rest, lest these orcs will have the field!" All his men roared in sheer battle lust as his tortoise broke apart and his men charged forward. Durandir darted to the front, and was the first to see the surprised faces of the Isengardians as they realized what was happening. "That's right!" Durandir sneered. "_We're_ attacking."

The two lines clashed together, and the match was quickly handed to Durandir and his unit, the more experienced Uruks proving their worth against the mass produced soldiers. The Isengardians were quickly forced back, and fled, at least for a short time. Durandir whirled around to his men. "Quickly now, we must fall back to the Deeping Wall, or we'll be surrounded and slaughtered." His men all turned, yet froze.

Durandir felt a deep dread in the pit of his stomach. He forced his way to the front, and realized it was true. They were too late. A wall of black armor and weapons and Uruks stood in the opening that lead to the stairs. The Uruk-hai of Isengard had surrounded the men of Durandir.


	18. This is the end, my friend

**AN- Finally, Helm's Deep is over. Darn that was long. Sorry guys (heh heh). Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings, Middle Earth, nor its inhabitants. I do own all the OCs, obviously.**

**Anyway, enjoy and review.**

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The line of Isengard Uruk-hai stood their ground, breathing heavily in anticipation. Durandir looked over them in exhaustion. It had been years upon years since he had actually fought in a full out battle with melee weapons. He had become more used to being able to use a rifle at long range than constantly swinging his arm around. _Gods, what I wouldn't do for my fifty-caliber rifle!_ His arm ached more than he ever remembered it ever aching before. It felt like it would fall off, and his legs burned at the slightest movement. He knew that he could easily reach the door leading to the Deeping Wall by himself, even as tired as he was, but now he had men and Uruks he was responsible for.

He looked behind him, and saw the faces of his twenty Uruk-hai and sixty-nine men. They were all filled with despair. There was a loud crunch of metal upon stone as the Isengard soldiers all took a step forward. "Men, I am so proud of you. You don't know me, but through your own faith, you followed me," he sobbed wearily as the Uruks stepped forward again. Less than twenty feet away now. "I am so sorry for having you here, for I have led you to almost certain death." Another crunch of heavy feet. Seventeen feet. "Our only chance is to charge as fast as we can, absorbing losses as we go. There is almost no chance we can make it, but it is the only way!" Crunch, fourteen feet. "First platoon, and first company, swords!" There was a metallic hissing as those who didn't have their swords out drew them. "Diamond wedge formation!" A quick shuffling of feet and jingling of armor answered him. _I am so sorry men, may the gods of your religions let you rest in peace. _He breathed in deeply, and breathed out, eyes closed. His eyes snapped open, and he raised his sword before him. "CHARGE!" he bellowed as loud as he could. He brought his sword up to his side, blade pointing up as he burst forward, his feet pounding against the ground. His hands were lightly gripping sword as he tried to remain relaxed, hopefully increasing his speed. The cool night air blasted across his face as the Isengard line came closer. The Uruk's eyes showed chock, fear, and sheer disbelief. After all, who would attack with less than one hundred soldiers against a force of more than five thousand? It was lunacy!

Durandir ducked between the blows of the first Uruk-hai he met, and his blade flashed as he swung hard. The first four Uruks dropped, their legs torn with big gaping wounds. Durandir ran past them, letting his men come in to kill them as his soldiers followed their leader. There was a roar of voices as the diamond of men slammed into the Isengard line, and shouts of pain as both Uruk and man fell to the iron and steel of weapons.

Durandir could hear voices he knew scream out in pain as Uruks slaughtered them, but though he so desperately wanted to turn and help, he could not. For if he turned, and slowed down, than they would be lost. He owed more to his men than a painful death like that. He ducked and weaved, slashing about with his sword, sowing pain and confusion in the ranks of the Uruks that his own men could exploit. It was, as he said, their only chance. He brought his sword through the leg of another Uruk-hai before following through by lopping off its arm. It roared in useless anger as it fell to the ground. He continued up the stairs, his men just behind him, struggling through the sea of Uruks. Suddenly Durandir hit a slick spot on the stairs, and he dropped to his knees as he slipped. He looked down in shock, and saw what had caused the slippery spot. It was Theoden's messenger, whose blood had poured out onto the stairs as he had bled to death. His lifeless grey eyes peered out sightlessly into the night, a mask of pain forever frozen onto his young face.

Durandir felt a tear roll down his cheek as he closed the eyelids of the man. Despair hit him in a wave, and he looked around him bitterly as he rose again to his feet, striking out at any Isengard soldier that came near him. "Why!" he screamed in anguish as he ripped his blade across the throat of an Uruk in front of him. "Why did you have to attack? Do you truly care about killing so much that you would throw away your own lives so uselessly?" he shouted, voice hoarse with emotion. He moved up the stairs as his eyes darkened in anger. "Fine, come at me! Feel your deaths at my hand!" he roared as he cleaved an Uruk in two. "Come, and die! Die! Die! DIE!" He grabbed an Uruk by the breastplate and ran it through. "You will feel my anger!" he bellowed as he threw the dead body down. "You will feel my sorrow!" he spun and cut off the head of an Uruk behind him. "And you will feel my anguish!" he yelled as he cut through five Uruks in the same strike. He paused, and cast a petrifying gaze over the Uruks around him, and they backed up in fear. "Let us pass, or die!" he said softly yet fiercely. When the Uruks didn't move, he raised his sword slightly higher, and growled, "Move!"

This time the Uruks backed up and let the men and Uruks pass to the small door leading to the stairway that went down to the Deeping Wall. Durandir slowly paced around his bloodied men as they moved, his sword still raised. Several of the Isengard Uruks roared and growled in fearful anger, but didn't change their stances.

The door opened, and quickly Durandir's men moved through the door, as Durandir slowly backed up behind them, covering them. He could see the carnage made by the Isengard Uruks, and his heart wept in sadness, but his face remained cold and angry. He slowly stepped backwards through the doorway, and slammed it shut as fast as he could. Immediately there was a slamming and pounding on the other side, but the heavy door held.

Durandir slumped against the door, his hand covering his face as he cried uncontrollably, his body shaking with tears. He was so tired of all this death. Why did it continue? Why did he have to force his body to fight, time and time again? And it would only get worse, that he knew. He laughed bitterly as he remembered how excited he had been when he had first fought a battle. Well, that euphoria sure as hell didn't last long, that's for sure.

"Matt, how many did we lose?" he asked hoarsely. He looked up, and saw the ragged remains of the twenty Uruks and sixty-nine men that had fought at the gate. He cringed as he noticed that none were unscathed, and most were wounded severely enough that it was surprising they made it.

"Sixteen Uruks and forty-two men sir. You got hit badly."

Durandir shouted out in anger as he slammed his fists against the stone floor, cracking it, as well as bloodying his hands. He sighed, and looked at his limp hands that rested against the cool floor. "How many do we have left?"

"Twenty-seven Uruks and ninety-six men."

Durandir groaned tiredly. "Thirty-eight percent casualties. I'm sorry Matt; it's all my fault for leading you here."

Matt knelt down, his ugly face twisted with compassion. "That's not true sir. If you hadn't forced us to surrender at Amon Hen, we would have surely died. At least the men you lost died in a way that made them proud! By happy, for they will rest in peace through the good deeds they did before death."

Durandir gave a watery smile. "We'll not fight unless they break through that gate, and get the wounded down to the gorge, and make them as comfortable as possible." When Matt stood to go, Durandir grabbed his hand. "How many of the original thirty do we have left?"

"Twenty-three, sir."

"Good, go." After Matt had left, Durandir stood, and made his way down to the elves, his mind buzzing incessantly. Yes, his men died well, but why did they have to die at all? It was all Saruman's fault, but if Saruman hadn't become a traitor, then they wouldn't have been born. Everything was both good and bad!

He looked up, and was surprised to see the elves milling about upon the wall, not fighting or firing their arrows. He frowned, and ran up one of the stair wells leading to the top of the wall. He spotted Haldir, who was wrapping up an arm wound he had received. "Haldir, why aren't you fighting?" Durandir asked, frowning even more.

"Ah, Durandir, it's good to see you alive. My Galadhrim had run out of arrows maybe fifteen minutes ago, and the Uruks have so far stopped assaulting us. They must have realized it was futile too do so, and anyway, they are more concerned with the open door. Simple tactics, so simple even an orc can grasp them."

"Sweet. How many have you lost so far?" Durandir asked absently while looking around, trying to spot a certain auburn haired female elf.

"Thirty-seven, thanks to you. It will be nice to see Caras Galadhon again, especially since I did not expect to see it again."

"Eighteen percent? That's good! I've lost thirty-eight myself, which I find utterly unacceptable. Listen; do you know where Elenloth is?" Durandir asked, and was shocked to see Haldir's face grow pale and worried. "Haldir, where is she?" Durandir asked, more urgently this time.

"She was wounded on the last assault, I don't know how badly. She is down there," he pointed.

Durandir turned, and ran down the walls, passing rank upon rank off elves. Dammit, why did she get wounded again? What if it was fatal? No, it wasn't! It couldn't be. "Elenloth?" he called out. "Elenloth!" He passed a large group of elves. There she lay, her head upon Legolas's lap, a bandage around her upper arm.

Durandir dropped to his knees in front of her, and grabbed her hand gently. "Elenloth, what happened? Are you alright?"

She slowly nodded, and opened her mouth. "A crossbow bolt struck my arm, and dug deep. Legolas thinks it scratched the bone." She suddenly tensed as she hissed in pain. Durandir winced slightly as her hand tightened painfully around his. "The bolt was filth-encrusted, so it burns. But I'll be alright. And anyway, its dawn. At least I'll see another dawn, right?"

Durandir nodded, tears coursing down his cheeks. "Elenloth, I'm sorry I wasn't here, like I should have been. I could have-"

Elenloth moved her good arm and placed a gentle finger against his lips, silencing him. "You were needed elsewhere, and I know this. I heard that someone volunteered to hold the gate." She smiled beautifully. "Thank you for being brave."

Durandir jumped as the Horn of Helm Hammerhand was blown, the noise echoing up and down the valley, reverberating in Durandir's chest. He coughed when it ended, his chest numb from the sound. Damn was that loud. It blew again, and there was the sound of fighting up by the main hall. Elenloth stroked the side of Durandir's face, and he gently picked her up into his arms. Legolas smiled at how tenderly the half-vampire handled Elenloth. The noise of fighting grew louder.

"Shhh, Elen, everything's alright now, everything's alright. You can sleep in peace, nothing will get through to you," he crooned softly. "Sleep, sleep, rest your eyes in sleep," he said as Theoden and Aragorn burst out the main gate, followed by fifty riders. Eowyn's eyes drooped, and Durandir felt her warmth seep into his weary body. She was so soft, yet so strong. He could stay like this forever, with nothing ever bothering them. Eomer and his riders showed up with Gandalf and charged down the steep hill. Durandir didn't care. He was too focused on the sleeping woman in his arms. He would hold her for as long as he could. Unfortunately that wouldn't be very long.

"Keep away from the forest!" Eomer shouted, Durandir barely hearing him. "Stay away from the trees!" Durandir looked up, and was shocked to see about a thousand or so Uruk-hai cornered in a nook in the valley. The rest of their comrades ran away into the trees. Durandir gently handed Elenloth to Legolas.

"If she wakes, tell her I'll return shortly. I have business to attend to." He leapt of the wall, and quickly made his way through the Rohirrim to the surrounded Uruk-hai. He broke out of the wall of horse-flesh, and looked over the Uruks, who stared back at him in anger. The trees started to attack the Uruks who ran underneath their boughs, and their screams were clearly audible.

"Uruk-hai!" Durandir shouted out. "Your army is spent, and your leader will soon be dead. I have seen it. I, a prophet. I have seen your deaths," he bellowed hollowly. "But fate has smiled upon you today. I will give you three choices. One: go to those trees, and be ripped limb from limb painfully. Two: fight the Rohirrim, and face certain death. Or three: join my, and live. Fight under my banner, and be free from the evil reigns of Saruman and Sauron. Fight for me, and have the possibility of living."

An Uruk stomped forward, raising its sword in anger. "Or we just kill you!" it roared, anger shining in its deep-set eyes. Durandir just drew his sword, slashing of its arm, and grabbed its breastplate. It grunted in shock and surprise as Durandir grabbed its lower jaw. Durandir pulled as hard as he could, and tore out its mouth. The Uruk screeched in agony as it dropped back, before it gurgled, drowning to death in its own black, foul blood. Durandir looked in disgust at the jaw he held before he calmly threw it away.

"Option four, join him." The Uruks chose wisely.


	19. Cleanup

**AN- Okay guys, here's the newest chapter. This one doesn't have much action in it, sorry.**

**It was brought to my attention that in my previous chapter I accidently wrote in one sentence I wrote that Eowyn, not Elenloth, was in Durandir's arms. Don't worry, it was a typo, and Durandir is not cheating.If he ever did, Elenloth would castrate him with a blunt spoon.**

**Anyhow, enjoy, and review (please)!**

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Durandir helped the Rohirric soldier toss the heavy Uruk body onto the growing pile. He dusted his hands as he looked around at the destruction around him. Mounds of Uruk bodies were everywhere, and over by the wall, the allied troops who died during the battle were being laid out gently in rows.

"Final count, forty-two," Legolas said smugly as he inspected his bow.

"Forty-two?" Gimli asked in sarcastic awe. "That's very good for a pointy-eared elvish princeling!" He leaned back on the Uruk-hai body he sat upon. "But I myself am sitting pretty on forty-three," he next to crowed in victory.

There was a flash of movement as Legolas quickly loosed an arrow between the dwarf's legs and into the dead Uruk. "Forty-three," he said triumphantly.

"He was already dead," Gimli said flatly.

"He was twitching!" Legolas argued.

"He was twitching, 'cause he's got my axe embedded in his nervous system!" Gimli roared as he pulled on his axe handle, proving his point through the sudden jerking of the Uruk. Durandir laughed out loud. Gimli turned towards him. "How about you, master vampire? How many did you kill? Surely you outstripped us both combined."

Durandir shook his head sadly. "Unfortunately I only counted thirty-seven definite kills that came by my hand." He raised his hand before either the dwarf or the elf could say anything. "But, I _did_ wound at least one hundred fifty enemies, and some of those probably count towards my kill score because of the fatality of the wound received. So, yeah, I probably do outnumber the both of you, but it's just not official." He turned towards Legolas. "Say, did you get my arrows yet?"

Legolas nodded, and pointed off towards where Durandir's men had grouped together. "I gave them to Matthiol. He said he'd give them to you once he could."

"Thank you. I need to go speak with Theoden and Eomer, so if you'd excuse me." Once Legolas and Gimli let him go, he picked his way among the piles of dead Uruks. He finally reached the two men, and bowed low to Theoden. "My lords, I have much wanted to speak with you."  
Theoden looked over him in surprise. He probably didn't fully trust Durandir; after all he just had met the half-vampire the previous night. "What about, captain?" he asked slowly.

"What this battle would have been like, had it happened the way I saw it."

"Well, it couldn't have happened much worse than it did," Eomer said darkly as he peered around him at all the battle damage.

Durandir looked at him as though he were the biggest idiot in the world. "Everything could be worse, my lord." He pointed out to the Deeping Wall. "That wall would have been destroyed and the Uruk possession of this fort almost complete, save the main hall. The elves would have suffered complete casualties, and all the old men and children you would have used to fight would also have died. The original three hundred defenders would have lost ninety-four percent of their number. Eomer, your men would have lost about the same, and the Isengard soldiers would have all died." He paused while letting the data wash over the two shocked men. "Now we have only lost three hundred nine people, of which twenty-five percent are my men. In terms of survivor to total force comparison, my men lost the most at thirty-eight percent casualties. The six hundred human defenders lost twenty-three percent of their men, the elves eighteen percent. The battle turned out to be much in your favor, so stop bitching."

"And it was you who stopped all this bloodshed, wasn't it?" Theoden asked tiredly.

"You could say that, my liege, but that might be giving me far too much credit. I need to speak with my men, which I'm sure you can understand."

"I don't want to keep you from your duties. Dismissed, Durandir." Durandir nodded, and walked away. "Can we trust him?" he heard the king asked.

"I do, but he is still a wild card, we should watch him. We must not forget his heritage," Eomer quietly replied.

Durandir didn't react; he was too used to having people react to him that way. He didn't really care, as long as they left him alone. He made his way across the battlefield, squinting at the shining sun. It was surprising it was only March.

He reached his men, and raised his arm in greeting. "Get me the leader of the men," he ordered, and presently a heavy set man approached, a layer of stubble across his chin, and a wild slash down his face.

"What do you wish, my lord?" he asked tiredly, panting slightly through exhaustion of the night.

"Stay here with your men, and once you are rested, return to your families. Your part in this war is over, and you have done greatly for the future of man. You have my leave to go home, and enjoy your families' love."

The man smiled in happiness, his face crinkling with the wide grin. "Thank you, sir, thank you so much. My children will be so happy to see me home safe and sound."

The warrior turned and happily made his way back to the men. He missed Durandir say in a quiet voice: "At least you _have _a family to return too." Durandir sighed, and he looked over the wide field before him, rubbing the layer of stubble on his chin. It scratched against his bare hand, and he wondered if he should shave or not. The men gave a loud cheer as they received the good news, and began to chant his name. He smiled and waved as they set off towards their homes. Kinda surprising they didn't stay and get some supplies. Well, they were less than a day's travel away by foot. They would be home soon.

A sudden sense of utter loneliness descended upon him, and he wished so bad to see Mary again. The now familiar sensation of his chest tightening descended upon him, the first time in months. Not since he had landed in Middle Earth, at least. He clutched his chest as tears pricked his eyes, and his throat felt like someone was squeezing it. Not even Elenloth could fully understand him or what he went through, no matter how long he knew her.

He jumped slightly as someone grabbed his shoulder. He turned, and saw the worried face of Matt. Something was different about him, but Durandir couldn't quite place it. "Are you alright?" the Uruk asked, genuine concern etched upon his features.

"Yeah," Durandir said as he cleared his throat. He pointed to the bundle of arrows Matt held. "Those mine?" he asked.

Matt just looked at him for a few seconds. "No, they're Saruman's. I just thought that you'd look pretty with them. Of course they are yours, sir."

Durandir couldn't help but stare at Matt for a few seconds in shock before he burst out laughing. "Wow, you made a joke. That's good, very good. I need to go check out Elenloth, so you're in command for now. Make sure the Isengard troops are guarded. I don't quite trust them yet." He took his arrows, then made his way back to the Keep.

He entered the cool shaded relief of the great fortress, and sighed in relief. It was nice to get out of the sun every once in a while, even if he was building up an immunity. He made his way past clean up crews, some collecting dead bodies, weapons, and equipment, some trying to clean the blood up from the floor. Inside the confines of the stone structure, the scent was almost overpowering in its sickening sweetness. Durandir's mouth involuntarily watered, and he had to concentrate on the task at hand: find Elenloth. Plus he knew it would look bad if he suddenly dropped to the floor and started licking at the blood there. Huh, instead of a bootlicker he would be a floorlicker.

He finally reached the temporary aid station where dozens lay, moaning piteously. As he walked along the rows of wounded soldiers he looked about disdainfully. "What are you looking at?" a soldier with a wounded leg demanded angrily.

Durandir stopped in front of the young man and glared at him. "I'm surprised that some of you are actually in here. I though this was for those who were seriously injured. Evidently you are all just a bunch of pansies."

The man spluttered angrily for a few seconds before he could retort. "Well, did you get hurt, mister vampire?" he bit out.

"Yeah, I got punched in the head twice, each time hard enough to decapitate one of you 'men.' Not only that, but I fought five times as hard as any of you did, but that is expected. I am superior to you. My point is, you should be able to suck it up, and keep out of here when there are probably men still out on the battlefield that are far more wounded than you. You should be ashamed." He spun, and headed further down the corridor, looking for the face he knew, and loved.

He finally found her towards the end of the long room, and nearly had a heart attack when he saw that she had her pants off, and another man was doing something with her upper legs. He nearly ran forward and killed the bastard when he realized the man was a surgeon, and was stitching one of Elenloth's leg wounds. "Look, I'm telling you, his spit can bind the wound, I'm being serious!" Elenloth was nearly shouting, getting odd looks from all around. Her hand tightened on the surgeon's shoulder as he accidentally pulled a little too hard.

"And I'm telling you, no one has spit that can bind wounds!" the surgeon snapped back exasperatedly. Evidently this had been going on for a while. Durandir just rolled his eyes, and spit in his hands. He rubbed his hands together, distributing the spit evenly before he walked up to Elenloth, and placed his hands on the unbound wound.

Elenloth nearly jumped out of her skin as the pain hit her full force. "Whoa!" she shouted, squirming at the feel Durandir's cold hands. "Damn, Durandir! Give a woman some warning next time, would'ya?"

"Sorry," he grinned. "Have I told you I loved you lately?" he asked seriously, while he checked to make sure that her leg was correctly sealed. This was the first time he could actually remember Elenloth swearing. It certainly shocked him. "Uh, I'm not going to seal your other wound, 'because it's already stitched. If I sealed it now, you would have those stitches embedded in your flesh forever. And I'm not going to have them removed now, because that'll cause some serious bleeding. Is that okay?" he asked quietly, giving the surgeon a look.

The man took the hint and moved off to the next patient. Durandir looked down to his love, and smiled again, offering a hand. "What would you like to see, my lady?"

She gripped his hand, and he pulled her up, and held her up while she pulled on the pants she had taken off. "The early morning sun. 'Tis my favorite time of day, and I would greatly appreciate it if I could see the sun again. I fell asleep in your arms before the sun rose, and woke up here."

Durandir gently took her arm, and placed it over his neck, letting her best leg be the farthest away from him. After all, stitches could bind the wound, but they couldn't take away the pain, that's for sure.

Slowly they made their way back through the fortress, Elenloth reduced to hopping along on her good leg. "You know Elenloth, you sure are graceful for an elf," Durandir joked.

"Oh, shut up," she answered, nudging him playfully in the ribs. "That's not funny." Of course, the fact that she was laughing completely negated what she just said. The two finally reached the top of Helm's Deep, offering them a wide view of the valley before them. The cleanup had come far since Durandir had left, much more of the gravelly ground was now visible, and huge mounds of Uruk bodies had simply grown bigger. Elenloth looked over the devastation in surprise. "Oh, wow."

Durandir held her close, kissing her brow lightly. She clung to him, and Durandir wished he never would have to let her go. He loved the feel of her warm body against his own cold body. The unreality of it all hit him in a rush. Here he was, in Helm's Deep, holding an _elf_ close to him, and he was now the leader of an Uruk-hai army. This could only happen in stories, yet it all felt too real to be a simple dream. _Even if it is a dream, it is a good dream, please do not let me wake from it,_ he asked whatever deities were watching over him.

He turned from that line of thought, and concentrated all his senses upon the woman in his hands. Though she smelt mostly of battle, her smell was there too, and that is what he concentrated upon. _One day, Elenloth. I promise that one day, you will be wholly mine, and I will be wholly yours._

A gentle cough broke the couple apart. There stood Boromir, who looked dead tired. "Durandir, we are getting ready to go to Isengard. Aragorn wants to know if your going or not."

Durandir frowned. "Well, I'd much rather stay here, with Elenloth, and be with her when everyone goes back to Edoras."

Elenloth laid a soft hand upon his arm. "Please, I would feel much safer if you went with them, and watched over them." She leaned in closer. "Plus, if you meet that man, Grima Wormtongue, you can pay him back for me," she said quietly. Then she whispered right into Durandir's ear just what Grima had done to her. His eyes widened with anger.

"I will pay him back, I promise to you, he will pay, for that and other things." He turned to Boromir. Get me a horse, and I'll go."


	20. Does she love him?

**AN- Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings, Middle Earth, or its inhabitants. I do own OCs like Durandir and Elenloth.**

**Chapter Twenty, YAY!**

**Well, I hope you like! Enjoy, and please review.**

CHAPTER TWENTY

Durandir's horse stepped heavily in nervousness. He sighed, and viewed his surrounding in interest. They were nearing Isengard, and were passing through the segment of Fangorn forest that had moved in. _Hah, mobile trees. Serving your shade needs…for a price!_ he thought sarcastically. His horse jerked underneath him again, and he calmed it down as fast as he could. That was one of the bad things about being half-vampire. A lot of animals were scared of you, no matter how kind you are to them. Then again, it could be helpful. Even the biggest and baddest guard dog steered clear of you.

His horse reared in fright, and at first Durandir thought it wouldn't get the point that he wasn't going to hurt the darn horse. But then he noticed that all the other horses were wigging out, as well. Durandir looked up in fear as a deep, dark roar came rolling out of the area up ahead. It rolled past him, making his chest constrict with the power of it. "Dragon!" Aragorn shouted as he tried to get Brego under control.

Durandir's eyes widened in shock. James had called for a dragon just before he was cut down. That roar sounded like it came from where Merry and Pippin were. Without another thought, Durandir spurred his horse forward to a full gallop. _There might be a chance that they are still alive! I have to save them, even if I may die in the trying._

He blasted past the final curve leading to the wall, and his horse froze in fear, both of its master, and of the behemoth before it. It was indeed a dragon, about as big as a fell beast, but with blue scales that glittered beautifully in the sun. "Oh, that was a great roar, dragon," Merry was currently saying.

"Very brave, and loud," Pippin agreed. Durandir didn't ponder this as he leaped over his horse's head. The second he landed, the dragon turned its ridged and bright head to glare at him with eyes as bright and silver as lightning. Its head shook as it gathered its breath, and it let loose a mighty roar right in Durandir's face. The foul breath blasted past him in waves, smelling strongly of heat and lightning, and the dragon's great black fangs glistened with ropy strands of saliva.

Durandir was pushed back slightly, his cloak whipping out behind him with the force of the roar, threatening to tear off. But Durandir shifted his left foot, not his right, and he was prepared to do an Amakakeru Ryu No Hirameki. His heart pounded with fear, and he felt dizzy just at the might of the dragon, but he was no coward, and would not flee if he had the slightest chance that his attack might kill the dragon. There was the sound of horses behind him, and loud exclamations of both shock and fear as his companions also rounded the corner.

Once the dragon saw that he was not going to run, it raised its head, and did the last thing that Durandir could expect it to. It started laughing, and at him. "Bravo," it said, its voice raspy and deep. Not only that, but it wasn't an it. It was a she! "Either you are quite brave or quite foolish. I know not which, but…" the dragon stopped talking as she noticed Durandir's sword. "Where did'st thou receive that blade?" she asked slowly, and carefully, barely concealing a rage dark and deep.

"I received it from a dead creature that no longer needed it," he said just as carefully.

The dragon just grunted, evidently accepting that answer…temporarily. "I have a different answer for thou. Do'st thou know a man who goes by the name of Donovan?"

Durandir felt his eyes widen a fraction of an inch in surprise before he could control himself. "Where did you hear that name?" he asked. "That is a name uncommon to these lands."

The dragon scoffed. "My previous master, who wielded that sword," she said, nodding towards the katana, "called out that name just before he passed from my senses forever. The way he had said it doth remind me of how a mouse calls the name of the snake: laced with futile hatred, and great fear. I do believe this Donovan saved me from a life of slavery by killing this Donovan. I truly do wish to reward Donovan, for this slavery would be all I know for my entire life without him. My first memory is of James forcing me into a bond that would end with one of our deaths. He is dead, and I am free. I wish to reward Donovan."

Durandir brought his hand slightly closer to his sword. This was the dangerous part. "My name from Earth, my home planet, is indeed Donovan, meaning in Celtic the 'dark warrior'. But I go by the name Durandir here." Now was when the dragon could possibly say his reward was a blast of dragon flame, and he doubted he could block enough to save both him and the people behind him.

But to his shock, the proud and mighty dragon bowed to him, its head sinking low. "I am in your debt, kind sir. I would be spent any way you would so say."

Durandir paused, looking at the dragon a long time. A dragon would indeed be helpful, but a dragon forced into servitude is never a good thing. "Dragon, I would never force you into anything, except perhaps freedom. I instead _ask_ you to be my mount. I guess you could think of me asking you to be my partner."

The dragon stared at him as long as he had stared at her. He shifted nervously under her inspection. Suddenly the dragon's maw opened widely in a toothy grin. "An' it were, good man. I would gladly be thy partner, and I swear on my honor to be thy friend 'till the end of your needs."

Durandir placed his hand on his chest, and bowed deeply. He straightened, also smiling. "I thank you, my friend. I swear to use you as you would wish."

Merry stood up, and holding mug and pipe in outstretched arms. "Welcome, my lords, to Isengard," he shouted happily. "We have been named sentry by Treebeard, who has taken over management."

"A merry hunt you have led us on, and here we find you feasting a-and smoking!" Gimli spluttered.

Pippin leaned forward. "The salted pork is particularly good," he grinned.

Suddenly Gimli's face perked up in interest. "Salted pork?" he asked in hope.

Gandalf just scoffed. "Ugh, hobbits!"

Durandir laughed loudly as he approached the dragon. "What be thy name? You know two of mine, yet I know none of thine," he said, looking over her form admirably.

"You may call me…Cerul. Yes, you shall know me as Cerul. Come, partner. Shall we fly now?" she asked, and Durandir stepped even closer, noticing an intricate saddle set where her neck met the body, just in front of the ridged and sharp spikes running down her back. He leaped up onto the saddle, amazed at just how high he was. "Strap in, I don't want you to fall off." Cerul gave an unpleasant chuckle. "That would be an unfortunate end." Her wide wings whipped out to her sides, the huge surfaces stretching out wide.

Her strong legs pushed, and she hopped up to the top of the wall before she jumped again, her huge wings catching the wind, and propelling her body even higher into the air. Durandir gasped as the wind blasted against his face, and he whooped with the fierce joy of it all.

He looked down, and was shocked to see that they were high above even the Tower of Orthanc. The Fellowship had moved on towards the huge colossus of obsidian, and were looking towards the top of the tower. Saruman walked up to the lip of the tower, and started talking with Theoden and Gandalf. Durandir looked around him, amazed at how far he could see. He gazed around for a few minutes, and saw Saruman shoot a fireball at Gandalf, only to have his black staff broken. Grima stepped up onto the top of the tower.

"Cerul, how quietly can you dive?" he asked.

In response, Cerul bent upside down, and angled steeply downward, wings tucked against her body. Even though Durandir was riding her, not even he could hear the dragon as it fell like a giant spear. He quickly unbuckled himself, and prepared to jump. Once he was about twenty feet above the tower, he jumped off the dragon, flipping gently, landing with all his vampiric stealth, making no more noise then a cat landing on a feather mattress. "Free?" Saruman spat. "He shall never be free!"

Durandir lightly hopped over the lip of the tower, catching the edge with his fingertips. "No," Grima answered forlornly.

"Get down, cur!" Saruman growled, slapping the man, and Durandir heard the shriek from Grima and the sound of his body hitting the floor. He pulled himself up, coming up unseen behind Grima as the filthy man pulled out his knife.

Grima leaped up, and brought his knife down hard. But he never reached his target. Durandir caught the arm effortlessly, and Grima jerked in surprise. Before he could do anything else, Durandir squeezed with all his might, feeling a feral pleasure as the wrist bones splintered beneath his hard grasp. He pulled the arm back up over Grima's shoulder hard enough to dislocate the shoulder and flip him hard onto the floor. There was a dull popping noise as some of Grima's ribs cracked under the stress. Durandir still held Grima's hand, so he stomped hard over the man's humerus, breaking the bone as well as dislocating the elbow.

Grima began to scream in absolute agony as the pain hit him without mercy. Durandir leaned down and smiled pleasantly to the crying man. "Maybe now you won't look at woman who aren't yours with rape on your mind, fool." Durandir stood, and stepped over the twitching man who held his ruined arm in agony. "Saruman, I would ask you for information, but I know all that I need to."

Saruman smiled, and opened his mouth. "What wrongs have I done to you? You could be one of my greatest Captains, and we could be strong enough to even overthrow Sauron. What say you, sir?"

Durandir stiffened, and Saruman widened his smile, looking like an elderly grandfather teaching a young man things that were good, and of honor. Durandir took a deep breath, and glared at the wizard. "You know, I bet it would be hard to live without any hands," he said deceptively calmly, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.

The wizard glared back at him, and sneered. "And what are you to threaten those such as I?"

"A warrior and a prophet. I know how to counter the siege of Minas Tirith. I know what forces are moving and where they move. The question is do you know anything of value?" he asked, sneering triumphantly.

The wizard's eyes glittered dangerously. "If you are who I think, than yes I do. The she-elf might not love you as you think she does."

Durandir froze, his heart skipping a beat. Saruman saw this, and pressed his advantage. "What if her love for you is a spell, designed to cause confusion? What will you do when Elenloth loves you no more?"

Durandir clenched his teeth and began to breathe faster with fear…and anger. "I would make her love me again. For if she sees my love for her, she might love me."

"And what is your love? A lust for a beautiful woman, coupled with Elenloth's likeness to your late wife. You do not love her; you merely want to lay with her!"

There was a flash of steel as Durandir drew his sword and leaped forward. He grabbed Saruman by the neck, and pushed him out over the ledge of the tower, only the wizard's feet remaining on Orthanc. The katana whipped up and pushed against Saruman's chest, right over the heart. Slowly Durandir tightened his grip, and ignored the futile scratches that Saruman put on his arm with his long nails. "You do not know how deeply I love that woman! When a vampire loves, it may come fast and without warning, but it lasts for a very, very long time. I love Elenloth with all my heart, and would kill and die for her. She does remind me a lot of Mary, but that is not why I love her. I love her because she was the anchor against insanity; she helped me survive in this world. She is my savior!"

"But now she does not love you, and you will fall into darkness on this world, doing great good for Sauron!" the wizard said as he began to laugh.

"You lie!" Durandir snapped as he shoved the sword right through the wizard's heart. He brutally ripped the sword out of the body, and watched as the body fell down, down, and down before slamming onto the water mill, impaling itself upon one of the spikes. The wheel slowly began to turn, submerging the body. There was a flash of light as the Palantir fell from Saruman's sleeves, and Durandir watched as Pippin jumped off Shadowfax and sloshed over to the sphere and picked it up.

Durandir turned, and picked up Grima, who had been quietly sobbing. _Dragon! _Durandir shouted out in his mind.

'_What?'_ came the reply.

_Can you pick me and Grima up, if we jump off the tower?_

'_You really don't know my abilities, do you? Go anytime, I'll catch you.'_

Durandir picked up Grima, and started for the edge of the tower. "What are you doing?" asked the filthy man in shock. "You aren't going to-!"

Durandir leapt off the tower, and Grima started screaming loudly as the ground began hurtling towards them. "Quiet," Durandir ordered calmly. There was a heavy sound of wings upon the air, and the dragon flew towards them quickly. Grima just started screaming louder.

The dragon caught their clothes in her mouth gently, not ripping or even tearing the cloth. The dragon flared out her wings, and slowed down rapidly as she splashed heavily into the water. She gently set the two onto the ground, and Durandir dragged Grima through the water to Theoden.

"I saved him, my lord. But I think you should know one of his secrets."

Theoden looked down at Grima in curiosity. "What secret?"

"Oh, just a small matter about your son. Theodred was healing, but Grima poisoned him so he would die." Theoden looked at the man first in horror, then in anger. "I leave him to you, and shall return to Edoras ahead of you. I bid you good day." Durandir turned, and mounted Cerul. "Do you know where Edoras lay?"

Cerul pushed off, and flapped her wings hard, heading rapidly towards the plains of Rohan. "I can get you there in less than one hour. Hang on!" Durandir looked back at the party. He would never see Grima Wormtongue again.


	21. Shark's Eyes

**AN- Sorry this took awhile. I just could not get into my writing zone recently. Anyway, here is chapter twenty-one (wow, it seems like just yesterday that I was writing chapter five...) and I hope you guys enjoy.**

**Disclaimer- I don't own LotRs. Ho-hum.**

**Read, enjoy, and please review.**

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The dragon slowed down when she reached the plains in front of Edoras. Her wings flared out to the sides, and she landed hard on the ground. Durandir slid out of his saddle, feet bouncing on the Rohan turf. He rubbed the side of Cerul's neck in appreciation. "I thank you, for being a good friend, and getting me here quickly."

Cerul turned her head around, and nudged his chest gently. "Don't worry about your love. Even if she does not harbor feelings towards you anymore, you just have to court her again." Trust a dragon to get right to the heart of the matter.

Durandir sighed, rubbing the hard plate between her eyes. She thrummed with pleasure. "How do you know that she will have me?" he asked quietly.As much as he wanted, he could not get the tight feeling in his chest to go away.

"Because spells like that have to come from feelings that could happen. If Elenloth couldn't or even wouldn't love you, than the spell wouldn't work on her."

Durandir sighed, and rubbed his face wearily. He hadn't slept in four days, and was getting a little twitchy. Again his hand swept over the short facial hair that was growing in, the short bristles scratching against his hand. His hair was also getting long, and he also might let that grow out, so he might fit in more.

He stood straighter, and looked Cerul in the eye. "Go ahead and eat. I would suggest eating in the mountains. The Rohirrim won't care as much then." The dragon growled out her thanks before she took off, heading for the mountains on the horizon.

Durandir watched after her diminishing form wistfully, hand resting casually on his sword hilt. He shook his head, remembering the wicked fast ride to Edoras. Turning, he headed towards the city on the hill. He wondered where his Uruks were, for they should have arrived by now. Before they had left for Isengard, he had told Matt to head for Edoras with the Rohirrim. Maybe they were just taking their time.

A wave of pain descended upon him with a rush, and he gasped. Damn, no matter if he was a vampire or not, his head still ached. And it would take at least another hour until James's powers shifted over to him. Personally he couldn't wait. Extremely accelerated healing was a very good thing.

As he trudged closer to the capitol, he rolled his shoulders, trying to get the kinks out. _I wonder how quickly I'll heal at first. Probably not fast, for I'll get the power as though I've only just gotten it. Therefore it will be very weak. But hey, with practice, it will get stronger._

He trotted up through the gate, and walked up the well-worn path up to the Golden Hall. As he walked up the stone steps, the Rohirrim Royal Guards snapped to attention. Out of reflex, he too stood at attention and brought his hand to his eyebrow to salute in the fashion of the American army.

When one guard quirked his eyebrow and the other smiled gently in amusement, Durandir dropped his hand, and stared at the two coldly. Not threateningly, just coldly. One coughed nervously, and Durandir stepped forward, his cloak whipping behind him. He entered the hall, and was met with a wall of bustling noise. He looked around in interest, enjoying the view of the great hall for the first time. It was larger than he thought, and people were moving about in preparation for the party. Including Elenloth.

He just looked at her in shock before he approached her, moving through the crowd quickly. He grabbed her arm gently, and she turned towards him, slightly startled. Everything slowed down, and it felt like an icy ball dropped into Durandir's stomach. Now was when Durandir would see if Elenloth still loved him.

"Oh, Durandir!" she said, face brightening. "I didn't expect you back so soon." She started forward again, and brought the stack of plates she had been carrying to a table. She wiped her hands on the small cloth she had tucked into her belt, and turned back towards Durandir. "How are you? You look ill."

He smiled at her, fully appreciating her elvish beauty. "No, I feel fine. I'm just amazed that you could bear to walk around with your wounds. Don't they hurt?"

"Ah, Eru blessed me today. My wounds healed much quicker than usual. They healed almost as fast as a wound of yours would." They started heading for the door, skirting groups of people. It all made shocking sense to Durandir.

"It has got to be a bond." They stepped out of the hall and into the cooler outside air. Durandir followed Elenloth to the edge of the massive stone platform that the hall sat upon. He blinked when he saw the sight before him before smiling. There, on the plain before him, stood two hundred five-man tents. Legions of Uruks moved among the tents, most pulling off heavy armor, some wrestling, others just loafing around.

"What kind of bond?" Elenloth asked, as she turned to face him, auburn hair whipping away from her face by the wind, grey eyes curious and bright.

"A bond between vampire and his love, generally made after the vampire feeds on that person. It is extremely rare and it allows the loved one to feel the pain of the vampire, and to receive his healing capabilities. I know that it isn't like an elven bond, which is much more powerful." He gave a small humorless chuckle. "Knowing how much pain it has brought you, I wish I knew how to stop it." He said all this bitterly, blaming himself for hurting Elenloth.

He sighed, and looked off into the distance, staring at the mountains that bordered the plain. A soft hand on his arm turned him around, and Elenloth's calm and solemn gaze let him be at peace from his self-anger. "Don't wish that, Durandir. I am personally glad that I can feel what you feel, for that at least lets me know when you are wounded. This way, I know for certain that you aren't hurt, and won't have to worry if we are separated again."

Her brilliant smile lit up his gloomy mood, and he smiled back at her. "Okay."

Later that night:

Durandir sat quietly next to Elenloth, and watched as Theoden stood up from his throne, holding the goblet Eowyn had just given him. There was a loud rustle as everyone else in the hall stood as well. "Tonight, we remember those who gave their lives defending this country," the old man said solemnly. "Hail the victorious dead!" he called.

"HAIL!" everyone shouted out. Durandir joined them in their drinking, letting the smooth ale wash down his throat. At least he could drink and eat, even though eating anything solid was uncomfortable. Any full blood could only ingest blood.

Durandir slowly set down the cup, and as the solemn moment passed everyone exploded into the noise of a full out celebration. Everyone except Durandir. He always felt slightly down after a battle, no matter what happened during the conflict. Helm's Deep was no exception. As he looked around at the people having some good, old fashioned, 'we kicked their asses, let's celebrate' fun. _So many young men, so many new widows. Why do we even have to fight?_ Durandir had never really wanted to fight, that was just a façade to put on for other people. Yeah, he was sometimes slightly too violent, but that was his vampire side. He looked over to Elenloth, who was talking happily with Legolas. She helped him realize that fighting was not the only way; she helped him nourish his human side. For that, he owed her everything.

Someone bumped into him, hard enough to make an ordinary man stumble, but he just absorbed the blow. He turned, and grabbed the shoulder of the young man who had fallen into him. "Oh, sorry sir, I didn't mean-" the young man started, and then his eyes widened as he realized just who he had bumped into. "Oh, sweet Eru. Um, sorry? I-I really didn't mean to do that, sir," he started stammering.

Durandir just held up a hand. He hated how being stronger and different made everyone afraid of you. "It's alright. Don't worry about it; I'm not going to die or anything," he grinned.

The man gave a nervous, very nervous, grin, and turned to leave. When he was about two paces away, he turned, face curious. "My lord, what was that game you were teaching the Uruk-hai?"

Durandir sighed, rolling his eyes. "First off, I'm no lord, mate. Second, that game is football. It's a sport where I come from, and a lot of fun." He grinned, and watched as the man's eyes flicked down to his elongated canines. "I'll teach you if you want."

The man grinned, and held up his hands. "I thank thee for your offer, but I'll decline. It looks brutal enough when I was watching."

Durandir nodded, and started chuckling in agreement. "That's certainly true. Getting tackled by a six-foot tall Uruk definitely hurts. And by a four-foot-six dwarf, too!" he added, glancing over to Gimli, who was setting the rule: "And no regurgitation!" for the drinking contest. The little guy was great at football while playing defense. Durandir himself couldn't count how many times he had been tackled by the smelly dwarf. Including that time where he had run on top the struggling defense and offense lines, only to get clothes-lined around the ankles by Gimli. He spun hard, and hit the ground brutally, still clutching the football. Then he heard a sentence he would come to wish that he had never taught the dwarf. "DOG PILE!" Last thing he saw was seven Uruk-hai and a dwarf launching through the air at him…

The man looked confused about something. "But where did you get the ball? I've never seen anything like it before."

Durandir answered neutrally. "I made it." It was true, he did. But by accident really. He had been walking among his troops, right after he realized they had nothing to eat, which was actually not true. They had collected plenty of dead Uruks from the battle that they could feast upon. Durandir nearly threw-up at that. But he had been walking among his troops, and had wished he had a football. And suddenly he was holding a football, and had suddenly felt very weak. At first this had been very confusing, but then he realized it: James had the power of creation, and Durandir took that from him. Anything he wanted, if he could think of it in detail, it was his. And considering how long he had been in the military, he knew over one hundred infantry and infantry support weapons in great detail. Immediately plans for the future had sprouted up. His infantry would be the absolute best someday, everyone would see. He would become a great asset for the Gondorian Army.

His thoughts came screeching back to the present when he heard Elenloth tell someone to go away in a very exasperated voice. He apologized to the young man he had been talking to, and made his way over to his love. A very large and very drunk man was bothering Elenloth, right in plain sight of Eomer. Moron.

"I jus' wanted to dance with ya!" the man said angrily.

Durandir considered killing him as he drew up behind the man, but that would probably annoy Elen, and piss off Eomer. So he laid an amiable hand on the man's shoulder. "Hey, mate. The lady said she doesn't want to dance with you. Let me go get you a drink instead."

The man turned on Durandir, frowning in drunken belligerence. He looked Durandir up and down, sizing him up. Evidently he was so drunk he didn't recognize the half-vampire. Poor bastard. "I don' wanna!" he sneered. He tried to turn away, but Durandir's hand on his shoulder held him like an anchor.

"Okay, don't get a drink, it doesn't matter to me. But I am asking you to leave the lady alone."

Eomer started to approach, but Durandir gently shook his head at the young marshal. "Oh, so you wanna fight?" the drunk man shouted as he swung a meaty fist at Durandir. Durandir caught the fist as he let his feet leave the ground, the force of the man's blow pushing him in a large circle so that now Durandir was the one between the table and the man.

"Look, mate, I really don't want to hurt you. But if you want to continue…"

The man roared, and threw another punch at Durandir. Durandir just sighed, and caught the man's wrist, and pulled hard, causing the man's hand the slam into the thick hardwood table hard enough to really hurt, but not enough to break bone. The man shouted in shocked pain, and started to drop to his knees, but Durandir simply maneuvered the man's arm around behind him, and jacked it up behind his back, forcing the man to his feet. "Sorry Eomer," he apologized to the man, who just grinned.

"It's alright; I was just about to order him to leave."

"I'll take care of this," Durandir grunted as the man jerked against his steely grip. "Alright bud, let's go on outside. I think you've had enough fun for tonight." He forced the man through the crowd, people pulling aside, shocked to see the large man being moved around by an average sized man; at least they were amazed until they saw who was doing the moving.

He reached the door, and motioned for one of the guards to open it up. "Orders of Eomer," he explained. "He wants this guy to calm down a bit."

The men nodded, and pulled open the doors, and Durandir pushed the guy out, hard enough to have him clear the door, but not hard enough to have him fall down the stone steps. Durandir turned as the doors shut, and made his way back to the table where Elenloth sat, feeling relieved that that problem was solved. Little did he know that Saruman's spell had finally worn off.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," he grinned at Elenloth, who just glared at him. His grin faltered, and a blanket of dread overcame him. "What?" he asked nervously.

"You didn't have to hurt that man!" Elenloth hissed, anger clouding her eyes, but deep down, Durandir saw fear and confusion.

He felt his temper grow. "I didn't hurt that man, I only let him feel pain. I assure you, his knuckles will be the only things that will have bruised, and his shoulder might be a bit sore, just reminders to not be stupid and bother the one I love."

Elenloth gave him a cold glare. "And who says I love you?"

Durandir just stared at her, feeling as the someone just ripped out his heart. "Y-you did, not earlier than this afternoon," he said weakly.

"No, that was a spell you lay upon me, so that I might think I loved you. But your spell has weakened, and I see you for what you are! A blood-sucking warmonger creature of darkness, who would try to lay with me, just out of love!"

Durandir gasped, and reached out his hand to try and touch her arm, to try and make sense of what just happened. This had to be a dream, it had to be! But before his hand made contact with her, she was out of her seat, and walking away from him. "I never want to see you again!" she hissed in anger, and disappeared.

Durandir just stayed his place in shock. Then he felt the rage hit. Rage not against Elenloth, but against Saruman. He should have kept the bastard alive, and tortured him to death, after many years of suffering. As he felt the wrath and hatred burn through him, he knew that his eyes were becoming black again. He didn't care. If Elenloth didn't love him, what could he do? What did he want to do?

The answer was instantaneous: kill. Use the rage to kill until there were no more enemies. His arm dropped to his side, and his other hand clenched into a fist.

CRACK!

His fist had slammed the table, causing the sturdy wood to break, despite the fact that the table was easilyfour inches thick. The bottles and mugs that were on the table jumped into the air, and so did everyone near the table. Legolas glared at Durandir, for he did not know that Elen had left Durandir, he had been to engrossed in his drinking contest. But the prince's glare faltered as he got a good look at Durandir's eyes, eyes that probably resembled a shark's.

"Sorry for the table," Durandir softly said, his voice trembling with the strain of trying to keep his rage inside of him. He stood, and made his way to the door, uncaring that everyone scrambled to get out of his way. He left the hall, and looked up at the unfeeling stars. "I swear I will have her love again!" he growled. His hand unconsciously gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, and he made his way down to where he knew his troops were waiting…

**AN (again)- for those of you who think cracking a four inch table is not a great feat of strength,Durandir pretty much just punched through a four-by-four piece of wood. Anyone who has been stupid enough to try that (I wave my hand excitedly while shouting, "I have, I have!") they know it doesn't work out very well. Namely: at best, the wood has a bunch of knuckle dents in it, and your hand hurts a lot (me); at worst, you broke your hand and the wood is untouched, seeming to laugh at your 'superior intelligence' (a person I know, no names shall be given out). What Durandir did was actually harder than breaking a four-by-four, because the table was hardwood, not pine. Anyway, just thought I might point that out.**

**See ya next chapter!**


	22. Just a Burden Now

**AN- Disclaimer: I don't own anything that Tolkein or Peter Jackson came up with. All else is mine.**

**Sorry this chapter is so short, but I lost the stupid journal where I kept my summary, so I couldn't remember anything beyond the end of this chapter in enough detail to continue, and it seemed like a good place to stop. You'll hate me by the end of the chapter though... (dramatic music)**

**Enjoy, and review!**

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Durandir made his way down the road, nothing in the night hidden from him, everything clear. Sometimes it was good to have the vampire side completely take over. He heard a slight rustle from behind a cabin to his right, and he tensed, sword halfway out of its sheath before he realized he moved. A cat mewled from its position on a stack of wood. Durandir snarled at it, and it ran in fright.

Durandir looked in the direction it had run in for a few seconds before he moved onwards, ready to meet his men. They would soon head to Minas Tirith, for there was nothing else to be done here. Durandir refused to be part of the Fellowship if he would be that close to a source of pain. A world in which Elenloth did not love him was a world he didn't want to exist in.

He reached the gate, and opened the doors himself, stepping out into the night, leaving the closed in city. As he shut the doors, he felt a person enter his zone rapidly. He spun and drew just as the bat like shape landed in front of him. "What the hell do you want?" he snapped to the figure before him.

It raised its head, and Durandir saw a gaunt face, stark white and tight. Fangs were easily seen in its jaw line, and Durandir's lip pulled back in disgust. A vampire of Middle Earth. Undead. Vermin as far as Durandir was concerned. It should be killed. "Brother," it slavered. "Long has it been since I sensed one of my kind. Happy I am." Its voice was a cross between a dry rattle and the hiss of a cobra. "Now we can go to Mordor, and serve the Great Eye."

Durandir just gave it a cold stare for a few seconds. Though his vampire side _was_ tempted, he knew he wouldn't be able to do it. "Uh… no?" he said icily. "Leave, before I kill you."

The creature's face drew into a tight scowl. "It tells me to leave," it hissed. "It thinks it can kill me. I will crush it with my claws of steel!" It leapt forward with stunning speed, claws outstretched to rip Durandir to shreds. It would never get the chance.

Durandir drew, his sword flashing brightly in the starlight, and the creature screamed as it looked at the two bloody lumps it had for hands. Durandir drew back his arm like a piston, and rammed the katana into the chest of the vampire, pinning it up to the wall where its legs couldn't get enough leverage on the ground or wall to pry itself out. And it certainly couldn't use its hands.

The sword rattled slightly as the monster jerked against it in pain. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you?" Durandir asked hollowly, emotionlessly. "I'm going to leave you up there until the sun rises, and fries you to a crisp. And that's because you stayed to fight. Now wasn't that stupid of you?"

The creature began to keen and wail in fright. "Shut up," Durandir ordered, but the noise only grew louder. "Shut…**_up_**!" Durandir yelled as his arm slammed forward in a blur. His hand crushed against the creature's throat, rupturing its trachea, silencing it as its throat swelled. It wouldn't die, for it took much more to kill a vampire than a broken throat, but at least it wouldn't make that annoying noise anymore.

Durandir stood there for a long time, an hour or more, catching drifting sounds of the party as he watched the vampire struggle, and it was true, he enjoyed its pain. But eventually he grew bored and headed back up towards the now silent hall. He knew he should go see his men, but they were probably already bedded down and fed. He could check on them in the morning.

He climbed up the steps to the platform just before the hall, and felt the two heartbeats to his right. Legolas and Aragorn talking about how the stars were veiled. Suddenly one of the hearts gave an unpleasant leap, and Legolas turned to Aragorn. "He is here!"

Durandir cursed, and wrenched open the doors, sprinting through the main room towards the presence of Sauron. "Dammit," he hissed as he skidded to a halt just outside the door leading to Gandalf's room. He pulled open the door, the sight of Pippin writhing in agony greeting him. Durandir did the first thing that came to mind: he took the Palantir.

Immediately the contest began. _Where is the ring?_ Sauron asked, trying to wrench the answer out of Durandir. Durandir let choice images appear before the Great Eye in his mind: him, holding the ring; the trip on the river; him throwing the ring into the Anduin River. _Information!_ Sauron demanded. Durandir complied, showing images of his childhood…

Aragorn's POV:

He ran into the room to see Gandalf tending Pippin on the floor, and Durandir standing stock still, holding the Palantir. He did not jerk or writhe, showing that at least he could hold his own against the Dark Lord. Several of the men who had been sleeping in the room looked afraid to touch him. Gandalf was already up and checking Pippin, who lay on the floor. Gandalf woke the foolhardy Hobbit up. "What did you see?" he demanded harshly…

Durandir's POV:

_I do not believe the ring is in the Anduin,_ the massive presence of Sauron stated, but Durandir did not give away any reaction. _Since you do not want to give me the information I want, then you shall…**SUFFER!**_

Aragorn's POV:

Elenloth ran into the room weapons in hand, panting slightly. "Is Sauron here?" she demanded.

Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, but before he could answer, he noticed the Durandir jerked slightly like he had been shocked. A sweat formed on the half-vampire's brow, and his eyes widened slightly.

Elenloth touched her temple gently. "Ouch," she breathed softly. Aragorn suddenly realized what was happening.

"Get the Palantir out of Durandir's hands, now!" he roared as he leapt forward. It was too late.

Durandir's knees buckled, and his eyes rolled up into his head as he fell to the ground. Elenloth started screaming in agony as Durandir began bleeding in the ears and nose. Aragorn grabbed the Palantir, and pulled it out of Durandir's hands, letting the sphere drop to the floor. Gandalf threw a blanket upon it, and all turned to Durandir. The only sound was that of Elenloth's soft sobbing as the pain left her.

Gandalf dropped to his knees beside the half-vampire, and began checking him. The more he checked, the more serious he looked. Finally the White Wizard looked up, face filled with sadness. "Durandir…has had his mind crushed. Only the memories remain. He will never truly live again, though his heart stills beats." Gandalf sat back and covered his eyes with his hand.

Aragorn looked upon the form of Durandir sadly. "Oh, but if I had only realized what was happening a few seconds sooner! He was a valuable ally, and a good friend." All the others, except Elenloth, sounded their agreement. "We shall take turns watching him until he awakens, so we might tell him what his fate is," Aragorn said softly as one of the Rohirrim wiped the blood off the half-vampire's face. It would be a tedious and solemn watching…


	23. The Power of Despair

**AN- Okay guys, the next chapter is up. What will happen to Durandir? Will he be crippled forever, or will he live again? This chapter will show you (evil laughter)!**

**Disclaimer- I don't own anything that Tolkein thought up, but anything that I thought up is mine.**

**Enjoy, and please review!**

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Gimli sat in the chair, his head tilted back, snores rumbling from his mouth as he slept. Durandir lay in the bed in front of the dwarf, the half-vampire laid out flat on his back, looking to all the world as though he was sleeping gently. It was already some hours since he had first been attacked, and dawn approached rapidly, no more than forty minutes away.

Durandir's eyes opened gently, a glazed and unfocused look covering the black orbs. His left leg twitched, and Gimli jerked to life. The dwarf blinked rapidly, trying to look like he was completely awake and didn't have a hangover, which he did. His eyes widened as Durandir sat up in bed, the blankets that had been covering him pooling around his waist. "Oh, my aching head!" the half-vampire grimaced. "What'd Elen do, hit me with a skillet?"

"Bu-! Wha-? How…?" Gimli stammered before his eyes glinted with faux anger. "Oh, feeling a bit mind sore, eh?" he asked as though he were concerned. "Well, ya scared the living earth out of us, ya damned half-vampire!" he roared, face turning beet red.

"What?" Durandir asked groggily.

"Yer supposed to be a vegetable!"

Durandir looked at the dwarf for a few seconds before he burst out laughing. A faint flicker of gold appeared in his eyes, like a glimmer of sunlight seen through great depths of black water. It quickly disappeared. "So what am I, a piece of broccoli, or a carrot?"

Gimli glared at him, fuming. "No, you supposedly had your mind crushed. You shouldn't be moving!"

"Ah, so that's why my head hurts. I guess you all forgot that I can heal, huh?" he smirked. "Where are my clothes?" he asked as he lifted the blanket, peering beneath the cover. For he was indeed bare-naked.

The dwarf shrugged. "Probably being cleaned, after all, they hadn't seen washing water for a long time."

Durandir sighed, and slipped his legs over the side of the bed. He stood, stretching, leaving Gimli averting his eyes frantically. "Do you have no decency?" the dwarf growled as he glared at Durandir from the corners of his eyes.

Durandir laughed coldly. "No!" he said, still chuckling darkly. Gimli gasped as Durandir began dressing himself in an odd way: by making the clothes appear through magic onto his body. To the dwarf's dismay, all the clothes were black, except for a sash that was wrapped around his waist, and the trimming around his over tunic, which were both silver. Durandir rolled his head around, and groaned softly as several ligaments popped. He cracked his knuckles through the black fighting gloves he wore before he picked up his empty sword sheath and start out of the room, boots thumping against the wood floor loudly. He paused before heading out of the room, cold eyes turning to gaze at the dwarf. The dwarf saw the silver motif of Durandir's personal crest upon the back of his over-tunic. Durandir fixed the tight collar of his under-tunic before he spoke. "Rouse the others if you wish, I care not. Just don't get in my way."

He continued on his way, brushing the sleeves of the over-tunic, the silver bordering sweeping against his elbows. Gimli stared after the half-vampire for a few seconds before he leapt to action. He had simply never before seen clothing like that, and to see it simply appear on Durandir was disconcerting.

Durandir stepped his way out into the grey of the predawn morning. Birds were singing off in the distance, and he listened to their melody for a few seconds before he continued on his way. He shifted his over-tunic, which was really more of a jacket, and made sure that the bordered fronts crossed each other just below his breastbone before they continued on, the right border hidden by the left side of the tunic, to tuck into his pants, the fold covered by his silver sash.

He heard all of the other Fellowship members following after him into the morning half-light. What did he care? They weren't his enemies, so he doubted he had to watch his back. Though they were supposedly his friends, he could smell the fear on them. So though he was sure they wouldn't betray him, he let a part of his awareness keep watch on them. After all, he had been betrayed and murdered by 'friends' before. He cursed himself. Damn him for letting his guard down! Just for something called love.

He was still determined to get Elenloth's love back, but he would never let his guard down again. Never, ever again. "Where is he going?" he heard Pippin ask as softly as he could. A normal human wouldn't have been able to hear him, even if he was trying to. But Durandir wasn't a normal human.

He turned his head back, and let his gaze wander over the Fellowship. Gandalf looked concerned, Elenloth looked pissed, but the rest looked slightly wary. But their scents betrayed them all. They were afraid, like mice before a cat. As well they should be. They should fear him. For they couldn't care for him. How could he let himself believe that they did? He was so stupid! No one cared for him; no one would ever care for him. "To get my sword," he answered, a slow smile appearing over his face, a smile like a grimace, with no mirth in it, but with lots of teeth. Half the Fellowship recoiled. He turned back towards the gate, and continued his leisurely pace. The sun would rise soon.

He walked through the gate, the human guards letting him through without protest. They could see the dangerous look on Durandir's face. Durandir turned towards the still trapped vampire, and smirked at it. Pacing in front of it, he gave a low chuckle. "Still trapped, aren't we?" he asked as the rest of the Fellowship came through the gate. Elenloth gasped in horror. "This is what happens you piss me off," Durandir said, more to the people standing around him than to the vampire pinned on the wall, whose movements were becoming much more frantic. It was already faintly smoking.

"Let him go!" Elenloth shouted, half angrily, half fearfully.

Durandir turned to her angrily. "You call that thing a 'him'! That _thing_ would crush you in your sleep! It deserves that fate coming to it!" He paused, looking over his horrified comrades. "Unless you wish to fight a desperate vampire. It could destroy you all in a second. Nay, it stays where it is!" Again the vampire jerked against the worn wood of the wall.

Durandir watched impassively as Elenloth tried to keep eye contact with him, but all too soon her eyes looked away from his. He snorted derisively. Now was when it was the most dangerous to be with his 'comrades'. He turned towards the vampire just as the sun rose.

Scarlet flames exploded of its skin, and a piercing scream came directly from its soul. Its skin peeled back as it curled from the heat of the flames, and blistered flesh boiled beneath its blackening skin. The flesh was soon consumed, and soon its bones only remained. The skeleton fell apart as cartilage melted, and soon the bones turned to dust, only to be blown away in the early morning wind. Only a black scorch upon the wall showed the passing of one of the last vampires of Arda.

There was a retching behind Durandir as Merry threw up. Durandir walked up to his sword, and wrenched it out of the wall. He snapped his fingers, and a black silk cloth appeared in his hand. He wiped off the blade, removing the black soot and the red blood so the blade gleamed again. He threw the cloth onto the ground as it burst into flames. He twirled the katana expertly in his fingers before sheathing it in a smooth movement.

There was a rasp of steel behind him as Elenloth drew her sword. "What you did was unforgivable," she tried to say calmly, but the tremors in her voice gave away her revulsion, anger, and fear. "You did not have to kill him so; you should have simply killed him outright, instead of leaving him to die like that." There was the sound of more blades being drawn, and Durandir turned to see Elenloth, Legolas, Aragorn, and Boromir all holding naked weapons.

Durandir breathed in and out, centering his balance. "Gandalf, Gimli, I don't know what you want to do, but if the others continue, then all shall suffer." He looked directly at Gandalf, who had a sad and old look on his face. "It was going to happen eventually, old friend, nothing could have prevented it." His gaze snapped to those holding out their weapons. "But this time I refuse to die quietly! I. Will. Not. Go. To. Hell!" he said slowly and clearly. "Put up your swords, there is no way you can defeat me. I will kill you, and to save the world, I will take the ring. I know where Frodo travels, it would be a simple matter to take the ring, and throw down Sauron. Instead of the world being under his domination, it would be under mine, a fate that I think would be much better."

Elenloth looked sickened. "How dare you speak of such matters! I knew I shouldn't have trusted you."

"BUT!" Durandir yelled, his aura blasting out against those facing him, making them flinch. "But, I do not want this to happen! I would much rather have the ring destroyed, and I sure as all hell don't want to have to fucking kill you! You were my comrades, my friends!" he cried, the anguish he was feeling coming out. "I felt a peace I hadn't in a long time, I felt safe like I hadn't in a very long time! I cruelly destroyed an enemy, yes, but I still killed it! Remember those goblins? I killed them cruelly to, and you were cold towards me then, as well. But I won your trust again, as I will do so this time, as well. Unless you press forward. If you do, then the world will fall into dark. I don't want this to happen, for I saw a wonderful future in the mirror of Galadriel. It was a beautiful possibility, and I want that to still happen." His eyes showed a faint sheen of gold, pleading his comrades. "Please, don't do this."

There was a long pause, Durandir still ready to strike out, those that were once his friends looking uncertain. Aragorn was the first to act, and he sheathed his sword slowly. Legolas followed next, then Boromir. Elenloth looked uncertain for the longest time, before she too sheathed her blade. But her eyes still remained hate filled. "Are we truly going to have to be enemies?" Durandir asked sadly. The glare he received was enough of an answer.

"Fine," he sighed, before lowering his eyes. When he looked again at the Fellowship, his eyes were black and emotionless. "Gandalf, I believe that you should have council with Theoden, for many things happened last night that the king should be made aware of. Let us all head back into the city, neh?" As everyone nodded and started towards the Golden Hall, Durandir grabbed Gandalf's shoulder. "I desire some of your council, as well."

The White Wizard walked with him, and waited for the half-vampire to start. Durandir remained silent for a few minutes before speaking. "I think that I will be unable to stay as part of the Fellowship for much longer. They anger me, and that is the worst thing that is possible, for I feel I am closer than ever to following the Dark Ways again. To Minas Tirith we should both go, for that is where Sauron will be placing his large attack. I have one thousand warriors whom I think will be greatly appreciated by the Gondorians. I could also bring Boromir to the city, for his father Denethor is in despair. He thinks he is defeated when he is still strong. But a weak mind can cripple a strong body, so we need someone to go wake him from this spell. Do you agree?"

Gandalf looked at the half-vampire, and could easily see the fear inside of Durandir, even though he was trying to hold it in. He truly was afraid, and weary of fighting. "Yes, Durandir, that would be the best course of action. Go prepare your men; I need to speak with Theoden." Durandir completely faced the wizard, and clenched a fist over his chest as he bowed slightly. Durandir turned and left quickly, his form rapidly heading towards the gate.

Elenloth stepped to Gandalf's side. "I really don't hate him," she said sadly.

Gandalf sighed. "I know, but the thought that you do is killing him, slowly but surely. Eventually his dark side will overpower the man that we have all come to admire. And another question my mind wonders is this: do you love him still?"

Elenloth groaned tiredly and unsurely. "Though I don't hate him, I almost wish I did. I thought that my love for him was a spell placed upon me by Durandir. But the more I think about it, the more that seems wrong. If he could do that kind of spell, than he wouldn't have had to deal with all the hate that he did."

"So you think someone else placed the spell upon you?"

"Saruman. I think that he had already placed one other spell on me, and it would be a great diversionary tactic if he dropped this love spell of his. To love a comrade one second, and then to not love him whatsoever the next. I panicked, and jumped to the first conclusion."

Gandalf gave her a stern look. "You do realize that you will have to tell him very soon, right?"

She looked at him seriously. "I know, I just need more time." The wizard nodded, and then headed towards the Great Hall, leaving the confused and lonely elf standing alone to ponder what she should do to be rid of the guilt and shame that lay deeply in her soul…


	24. To WAR!

**AN- Again, another short chapter. I'm sorry! But I was trying to continue writing, but as I looked at it, the ending looked right, so I went with it. Plus, one of my closer reviewers told me that she couldn't wait for the next chapter.**

**Anyway, I'm sure you know my disclaimer.**

**So please, read, enjoy, and review...**

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Durandir stood leaned back against one of the pillars of the Golden Hall, and was passively glaring at the man seated in the throne before him. "So, I take it you're not going to help Gondor, even in their time of need?" Gandalf had already left with Pippin, and Aragorn and Merry had just returned to the Great Hall. Elenloth stood in an opposite corner, glaring at Durandir. He just ignored her just like she seemed to be doing to him.

Theoden sighed. "As I asked Gandalf, why should Rohan ride to the aid of those who did not come to ours? Do you have an all proficient answer to that question, half-vampire?"

Durandir pushed against the wall with his back, and slowly strode towards the fire pit in the middle of the room. He looked towards the king as he raised his hands towards the fire, warming his palms. "Actually, my liege, I do have a reason. The reason is this: if you don't go now, you will go later, and if you go later you will only mobilize six thousand spears. The lines of Mordor will have roughly two hundred thousand units, plus twenty oliphuants, which are big enough and powerful enough to crush your forces." He paused, looking over the face of the king before continuing. "But if you go now, you will have at least twice as long to mobilize, giving you time to gather at least twice what you would normally get. And that sounds like a good idea to me."

The king still looked doubtful. Durandir chuckled, a frightening sound. "Look, if you want, I can have Cerul light one of the beacons so that you have an official reason." He held his hand out to Theoden. "What say you my liege?" he grinned. "Gondor calls for aid."

Theoden only looked hesitant for a few more seconds before a set look came to his face. "Then Rohan _will _answer! Muster the Rohirrim!"

Durandir grinned, his teeth flashing in the firelight, and his black eyes took on a faint reddish tint. "Good," he crooned softly to himself. "Goood."

He tightened his gloves as he heard the bell start to ring outside, and spun sharply on his heel before he headed for the door. He stepped out of the great wooden doors, and looked over the men already assembling for the ride ahead of them.

Theoden and his men, followed by the rest of the Fellowship, stepped out after Durandir, the wind catching their cloaks. "Assemble the army at Dunharrow, as many men as possible. From there we will ride to Gondor, and war!" Durandir listened as Eomer approached him, and watched as the Marshal passed him to get to his men. "Gamling, make haste across the Riddermark. Summon every able bodied man to Dunharrow."

Durandir scoffed, and started towards the stone steps. "I take my men to Minas Tirith. It will take you three days to reach the White City from Dunharrow, yes?" He looked back to see Theoden nod in confirmation. "Good, I will contact you when you need to ride from there. Until then, Theoden king." He continued towards the city gates, ignoring the awed, or scared, looks the Rohirrim gave him. _Cerul, it is time we head for Gondor._

'_Good, I can't wait. I bear much hatred for the orcish race. I wonder how their bones will snap under my teeth, how their flesh will burn in my breath. Oh, indeed, I can't wait.' _She ended her thought with a very unpleasant chuckle. But she sensed his unease even through their weak bond. _'The lady elf not give you favor, eh? Worry not; I'm sure that you of all people can capture it.'_

_Thanks, Cerul, I needed that._ He turned, and looked behind him, catching Elenloth's gaze just before she ducked her head, pretending to be studying her saddle. Then his heart really did lift, for he did not see hatred in her gaze, only sadness and shame. He turned back towards the gate, a small smile gracing his lips. "Maybe I can win her favor, maybe I can," he whispered to himself before his face returned to its neutral look.

As he neared the gate, he decided to test his strength, as he hadn't in a long time. Even when on Earth, the modern weaponry made it so he didn't really have to train, and as it stood, he barely was at half of his strength when he was at his prime. He had grown _weak_, and if there was anything he now despised, it was weakness. He wondered what the faces of his friends would look like if he told them he felt weak. But the battle of Helm's Deep had proved it, at least to him. He should have been able to fight at least two of those battles, three if James hadn't been there.

So he glanced at the gate, taking in a dozen calculations on height, angle, wind, and strength needed. Even as he was in the middle of all of this, he started to run as fast as he could. Once he was twenty feet away, he leaped into the air, and sneered as he heard the gasps of the Rohirrim. He had much respect for these men, but they couldn't understand what true strength was. To the simple peasants, it must have seemed like he was flying, but in truth, Durandir didn't quite get the distance he had wanted. Instead of easily leaping _over _the gate like he wanted, he had to land on the wooden poles closest to him before pushing off again. As he flew through the air with increased strength and speed, he drew his katana.

As he started his descent, at more than thirty feet in the air, his started channeling his chi into the sword so it started glowing gold as he hurtled towards the ground. "Ryutsuisen!" he shouted as he swung down with his blade as quickly as he could. Though his sword never touched the ground, the clay dented inwards harshly as though a giant struck it with the edge of its hand.

Durandir bellowed, and another surge of power hit his sword, blasting a huge crack into the ground, and the earth exploded away from the fissure as did the earth around Durandir's feet. As his feet sank down into the craters he had made, Durandir collapsed to his knees. A cold sweat had sprouted all over his body, and his stomach suddenly felt very nauseas. He hadn't channeled his energy in such a way in a very long time.

He shook his head, beads of sweat flying off his face. He stood up shakily and tried to get his bearings. After a few seconds of trying, he clutched the sides of his head, trying to make the world stop spinning so wildly. When even that didn't work, he closed his eyes, and concentrated on his breathing, trying to get it as centered as he could.

After a few minutes of this, he opened his eyes, and was relieved to see the earth had stopped spinning. He sighed; glad to be feeling much better. Stepping forward, he started to head around thewall to where his men waited for him and his orders.

AS he walked, he decided to thoroughly retrain himself so when he met the forces of Mordor; they would come to fear him. Then again, his men actually needed to be trained better, too. Soon the whole world would hear of the strength of his men, and fear or praise them.

He passed the last curve hiding his men from view and halted in surprise. His army, ready to go, with Cerul at their head. She spotted him, and roared, the sound shaking the ground. His pike men immediately began to pound the earth, and his swordsmen pounded their shields with their falchions.

Durandir strode over to the dragon, and Matt ran forward to meet up with him. "Cerul told us to get ready to leave, sir, and frankly: I ain't going to so 'no' to a dragon!"

Durandir laughed delightedly. "Good Matt, now we can leave even sooner. We head to Minas Tirith, and war!" Matt turned around to face the legions of Uruks lined up in perfect rank and file.

"Forward! MARCH!" he roared, and the army started forward, heading towards the White City of Gondor, and to the greatest battle of their time...


	25. New Toys, and Minas Tirith

**AN- Sweet, twenty-five chapters! And this one will be a bit longer than the last two, with about 2600 words. Disclaimer-I don't own either LotRs, nor Middle Earth. Anything that is original, is mine though.**

**If any of you are confused at the mike-mike, it is military jargon for milimeter. You'll see what I'm talking about. And if you think I'm giving Durandir and his men an unfair advantage, think again. I've got some tricks up my sleeves for Mordor...**

**Anyway, please read, enjoy, and review...**

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Durandir peered at the target with a pair of binoculars. "Estimated range, two hundred meters. Prep weapon."

"Sir, yes SIR!" the soldier shouted. He fiddled the weapons targeting controls.

"Fire when ready, sergeant."

"Roger dodger!" The sergeant grabbed a standard round for the sixty mike-mike mortar, and slotted it into the weapon's barrel. "Round away!" he shouted as he let go of the shell. The mortar fired with a hollow _shtumph_. Durandir waited as the shell rapidly went downrange, and smiled as the tree, the 'target', exploded with the first hit.

"See, what did I tell you? Didn't I say you would become perfectly proficient with the mortar? Pack up; we're going to get going soon."

The man jumped up and saluted sharply. Durandir watched as the man started to disassemble the mortar, his squad mate helping him. Damn, you could barely even tell that these guys used to be Uruk-hai.

He walked away from the two men, the 'Durvagorians' as all his previous Uruk-hai decided to call themselves. He had at first been confused by his men's transformations, but as close as he could figure the Valar had decided to take pity on them, and transform them to humans. For had there ever been an army of Morgoth that had ever decided to turn back to the light?

He stopped at another part of the camp where the men he had given M-16s to were practicing their marksmanship. Granted, they still needed some practice, but they would have a hard time not hitting an army the size of the one that Mordor would send to Minas Tirith.

But he had stressed the importance of accuracy on the part of the mortars, for he needed them to hit the high priority targets, such as the siege towers, the catapults, and the battering rams. The loud chatter of a heavy machine gun caught his attention. One of the Durvagorians were crouched behind a M2HB .50 caliber Machine Gun. Durandir had told them how Americans had called the weapon 'Ma Deuce', which the Durvagorians found fairly amusing.

Durandir sighed, and approached the corporal while he shook his head. He grabbed the soldier, and the man jumped as he turned to face him. "You're wasting ammo. Use controlled three round bursts, not unsteady full auto fire. Do you get me?"

"But sir, I-"

"DO YOU GET ME?" Durandir roared. He had quickly instilled a modern ranking system among his troops. And also the discipline. If they had been normal orcs turned good, he would have a hell of a time getting them to do their deeds properly. But they were Uruk-hai, so they were disciplined, and understood rank. Durandir hadn't given himself any given rank, but it was understood that _he _was the boss.

The Durvagorian snapped to attention. "SIRYESSIR!" he roared back. "I was just saying, sir, that you can easily make more ammo, sir! Why should we conserve it?" He paused, and then caught himself. "Sir."

"What if I can't get to you, and there are dozens of orcs charging you?" He leaned closer into the face of the soldier. "What happens when you run out of ammo then, corporal?" He plucked at the BDU field jacket that all his men now wore, all in the woodland camouflage scheme. "Can this stop a sword? Sure your body armor might, but that only covers your torso. Orcs can still tear you to pieces. And what melee weapons to you have now? A knife," he pointed to the Ka-bar, "and a tomahawk?" he pointed to the hand axe that was holstered on the corporal's web-gear belt. "That would not long hold off a horde of bloodthirsty orcs, and you know it." He leaned even closer to the man, baring his teeth at him. "So when I say control your fire, than do so!"

"Yes sir!" the man snapped angrily.

"Pack up, trooper, we're leaving soon." Durandir straightened as the Durvagorian saluted him. He snapped a salute back, and the man turned to his task. Durandir turned around, and was glad to see that his order had gone through. The camp was a bustle of movement as his thousand troops worked like ants as they packed up.

Durandir turned towards his army's destination, and was glad to see the river Anduin in the far distance. They had been traveling for five days now, and were getting ever closer to their destination. There was a heavy thud as Cerul landed behind him.

"What thinkest thou?" he asked, smiling slightly at how his speech reverted to 'Shakespearean' every single time he spoke to Cerul. "How long would'st take us to reach fair Minas Tirith?"

"A good two more days, my friend. Making a forced march in seven days is quite the accomplishment, I think. Especially with frequent stops to train your soldiers in new ways of fighting."

Durandir felt, rather than heard, her anger at the end of her sentence. "I know that thou thinks my methods of fighting are disgraceful. But I do protest. For there is an army of several hundred thousand marching on Minas Tirith! I am using this army to save human lives."

"Doth thee truly think that I care about such, Durandir?" the dragon snorted as she leaped off the ground with a powerful thrust of her wings. The wind slammed against Durandir, but he stood stock still. He was still adjusting to the fact that Cerul was completely neutral, not caring if an individual died or not, as long as it didn't really concern her personally. He sighed, and looked around at his now ready army. He started forward, wondering just what kind of reception he would get at Minas Tirith.

Two days later, Minas Tirith:

The sentry yawned as he paced around the tower that looked over Pelennor Fields. He glanced over the wide grassy land that lay between Minas Tirith and Osgiliath in disinterest. In an hour, his shift would be over. He felt it was going to be a long hour. He took another step in his seemingly endless cycle before he blinked in surprise.

He gasped, and his eyes snapped back towards the distant dust cloud, from the direction of Rohan. "It can't be!" he whispered. The beacons hadn't been lit, how could Rohan have known? But then his eyes shifted above the oncoming dust cloud, and he noticed the bat like shape, and his heart squeezed in terror. He was just about to give warning of an oncoming fell beast when a bright flash of sapphire caught his attention. That was no Nazgul mount, but a dragon. A dragon?

He turned towards the city. "Sound the alarm!" he shouted wildly. "Dragon! There's a dragon!"

Durandir's POV:

He smiled as he saw the dots that were Gondorian soldiers line the walls of Minas Tirith. "Cerul, I need to speak with Matt, and then we can go say hello to our rude hosts." Cerul chuckled, that ominously creepy rumble, and she dove towards the Durvagorians.

The walls of Minas Tirith:

"Oh sweet Eru, the dragon is attacking those men!" an archer shouted, and the Gondorian soldiers watched with horrified anxiety as the dragon dropped towards the soldiers they could just barely make out.

Durandir's POV:

"-so keep on going!" Durandir shouted out as he drew his sword. "I'm going to go speak with Denethor."

Matt grinned savagely. "Go have fun, sir!"

"I plan to; Cerul, let's go!" The dragon's wings blasted out, kicking up dust in great clouds, obscuring Durandir's soldiers. There was the scream of air against the wings' edges as she hurtled towards the city.

The Walls:

"Can you see them?" someone shouted down the line.

"No, they must have been killed by that monster," the archer replied grimly as he tried to see through the dust.

"Here it comes!" someone screamed in fear, just as the Archer Captain shouted, "Prepare your bows!" There was the rattle of arrow against bow stock as all the archers fit arrows to their bows…

Durandir's POV:

"I really hope you can dodge arrow volleys, Cerul!" Durandir shouted over the wind.

"Why is it that you always underestimate my abilities?" Cerul roared back.

"'Cause I don't know them yet!" he laughed grimly. "Head for the edge of the spire!" Cerul shifted her bearing in response. It was then that the archers on the walls fired the first of their volleys. Durandir felt his stomach freeze in fear as the virtual wall of arrows flew towards him and Cerul. _So this is what the French felt at Agincourt!_ he thought sadly. However, Cerul simply folded her wings to her sides, dropping below the arrows and at the same time causing Durandir's stomach to rise into his throat.

The next volley was fired, and Durandir grunted as Cerul slammed down with her wings so she rocketed up, and Durandir's stomach almost immediately decided to reside in his feet. Cerul blasted over the gate like a blue missile. She reached the end of the spire, and angle almost straight up, and pumped her wings hard to get altitude. Durandir squinted his eyes with the force of the wind against his face, and looked at the stone surface below his feet with surprise. The stone shapes were going by so fast that not even he could distinguish the individual lines and crags.

Suddenly there was nothing but air below his feet, and Cerul braked hard, roaring with the strain of it. Her feet latched to the end of the huge spire, and Durandir undid the straps to his legs that held him into the saddle. He leapt off his huge mount, and landed lightly on his feet. "Cerul, head back to the men. I don't want you to get hit by any arrows, even by accident." Cerul roared, and pushed backwards with her feet, disappearing from Durandir's view as she fell down.

He turned towards the Citadel, and grinned at the sight of dozens of Citadel Guards charging him. The Fountain Guards held their ground, still protecting the White Tree. His grin turned into a blood-curdling chuckle, and the charging Gondorians faltered ever so slightly. Ever so slightly was all Durandir needed. His blade raised high, he charged as well.

Inside the Citadel:

To say Denethor was unhappy was an understatement. "My lord, we have to get you out of here!" one of his attendants was shouting, fear in the man's voice.

Denethor stood imperiously. "And why should I? I refuse to leave in the face of my enemy. And besides," he grinned, "the Citadel and Fountain Guard are the best soldiers in Gondor. No fiend of Mordor could defeat them all."

Just as he finished talking, the shouting outside turned into screams of fear and pain, and the doors burst open. Everyone in the throne room turned to see the four Citadel Guards, whose bodies had opened the doors, slide down the polished marble floors. There stood a man at the mouth of the Citadel, and he was dressed all in black. He held an odd blade, which Denethor could not discern where it originally came from.

The man started forward smoothly, his movements those of a skilled warrior. And Denethor knew true fear when he saw the man's eyes, which were as dark as the blackest of nights. He sheathed the odd sword as he came forward, and did not flinch as one of the few remaining Citadel Guards charged him with a drawn sword. Denethor watched the man in curiosity as he didn't even draw his blade, at least not yet.

Durandir's POV:

He sighed as the Citadel Guard charged him, the man screaming in a desperate rage. The second the man entered his range, Durandir let fly his Battojutsu Soryusen, his sword cleaving the man's blade in half before his sheath caught the man in the head, sending the Gondorian flying into one of the pillars with enough force to dent the man's armor severely.

Durandir glared at the fallen man in annoyance as he sheathed his sword, but once the click of hilt against sheath was heard, he turned his impassive gaze upon the Steward of Gondor. "The way you greet allies is most curious, Denethor son of Ecthelion. And most annoying."

"Ally?" Denethor spat. "How can you be an ally?"

Durandir blinked at him, a small and cold frown marring his face. "If I was an enemy, I would have had my dragon partner burn the entire spire with her flames, including all of your precious Citadel and Fountain Guards, as well as the White Tree and the Fountain. Then I would have come in here and killed you all without a single problem. After all, my blade has felled legions of men and orcs without them being able to even scratch me. Instead, I merely came to your council as quickly as I could, and defended myself when I needed to." He straightened ever so slightly. "Gandalf, how are you?"

"Quite well Durandir, though I believe your method of entry is rather unorthodox." The White Wizard had headed for the Citadel as soon as he had heard of the approaching dragon, and yet Durandir had still beaten him.

Denethor scoffed as he sat back down into his chair. "Another singular ally, hm? Do you also want the beacons to be lit? Do you think Gondor needs aid?"

Durandir's cold laugh echoed around the cavernous room. "No, the beacons need not be lit, for Rohan is already mobilizing. And your foolishness will kill all of your people, by the way."

Denethor's face twitched with anger. "You dare call me a fool?" he roared.

"Yes, I do. Your ignorance will cause not only your death, but the near death of your son, despite the fact that there was still hope. You are the leader of a strong people, yet your weakness would kill them all, your despair will destroy Gondor. You think that you are wise, and noble. But the Palantir gives out lies, Steward." There were gasps from the attendants and lords that were in the hall. "Sauron will lead you down the path of utter despair. So I say again. Dotard, you who are as ignorant as dirt."

"Guards, remove this man!" Denethor bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth.

"**_NO!_**" The shout reverberated throughout the hall, and dust shook from the ceiling. Any guards who had moved froze with shock. "First, I am not a man, but a half-vampire. My father's line, villain though he may have been, extends far back in the genealogy of vampires, and I am more noble than you may think I am. Second, would you be foolish enough to remove your greatest ally? Or are you afraid? Afraid of the coming of the King? Or afraid of me, instead?"

Denethor's face darkened with rage. "The throne of Gondor is mine, and no other's!"

Again Durandir laughed at Denethor. "You idiot! You couldn't stop the King's return, even if you tried. If you did, I would have your son replace you, by any means possible."

"You could get executed for your words!" Denethor threatened. This time it was Gandalf who laughed.

"The entire army of Gondor could not stop Durandir, even if he took your threat seriously enough to care. Especially if he had his army behind him."

"Indeed, Denethor. I have one thousand men with weapons that could burn this city to the ground without them even having to try. So please, just hear me out."

"Fine, master vampire. What dost thou want?" Denethor sarcastically asked.

"As many skilled laborers as possible, and enough digging tools to equip them, and a thousand more men."

Denethor blinked in surprise as Durandir watched him in amusement. Evidently he hadn't expected something so…useless. "Granted. But what for?"

Durandir smiled icily. "Oh you'll see, milord. You'll see."


	26. Defenses and Waking Up

**AN- Yo people! What's up? I've been really busy lately, including a week long stay in a hospital (don't worry, I'm fine, thanx for worrying) in which I couldn't write anything because I didn't have my computer. Anyway, I got back the twenty-third, and spent all of the twenty-fourth writing this chapter. Just as forewarning, this chapter has no action, Denethor getting PO'd, and Durandir being his usual smug self. So...**

**ENJOY, AND PLEASE REVIEW!**

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Denethor sat at the dining table in the Throne Room chamber. He looked over his noon-time meal, trying to decide what to eat, where to start in on the feast that was set out before him. It had been two hours since the half-vampire, Durandir, had left to do whatever he wanted to do, and Denethor hadn't heard anything from him since then. Which he actually preferred. The Gondorian people would not be happy when they heard that he actually enlisted the help of a monster that took the guise of a human. He sighed as he reached for a chicken thigh, quite ready to sink his teeth into the moist white flesh. But before he could even touch the food, the doors to the Citadel burst open.

He growled savagely, causing the halfling Peregrin Took to back away slightly, the mail shirt of his uniform jingling slightly with his movement. But Denethor didn't really care about that right then. "Who so dares interrupt my repast?" he snapped angrily.

Evidently the soldier who had so rudely burst into the cavernous room didn't care about tradition at that moment, for he rudely shouted out without any thought of protocol. "My lord, you have got to see this!"

And so five minutes later, Denethor stood at the end of the spire, looking down at the foot of the city, where a large ring was being dug surrounding the city's outer wall. He twitched with annoyance as he looked down at the laborers and soldiers who clambered over the huge trench like ants working on an anthill. His halfling squire stood at his side, alternatively looking from the trench to Denethor's face. "Tell me, Peregrin, did you travel with this Durandir?"

"Yes, milord."

"And what, pray tell, is he like?" Denethor asked coldly.

"Well," Pippin began slowly, unsure as to how to phrase what he wanted to say. "I guess you could say he is a warrior, first and last." His eyes suddenly brightened up, and the young halfling grinned. "And he's really powerful, too. He took on a cave troll with naught but a knife, yet still beat it."

"Really?" Denethor's tone was rather sarcastic for Pippin's liking.

"Yes," Pippin almost challenged. "He did. And he also demolished your Citadel Guards without even spilling a single drop of blood, without spending a single life needlessly. He is also a prophet, and has said things of my future which have started to make sense. He knows one version of the future, though I heard him say that the things are changing more than he would like lately. After all, he knew about your Palantir. Do not doubt his strength, nor his honor. He has nearly killed those close to him because they have challenged his honor. He is more of an ally to you on his lonesome than two hundred seasoned warriors, do not think otherwise."

Denethor sighed, and turned to the guards who had followed him out of the Citadel. "I want twenty of you to come with me," he said sharply, and headed for the stables that was specifically for his horses and for those horses of important messengers. He threw open the doors with impatience and looked to the stable-hands with ire. "Saddle my horse, and quickly!" he shouted, and the men burst into a flurry of movement. He watched with impatience as they rapidly placed a saddle blanket over the horse before they dropped his ornate saddle on top of the blanket. The second they finished tightening all the different belts and straps and fit the bit into the horse's bit into her mouth Denethor was in the saddle, and he wheeled his horse around, setting her off to a low trot.

He was not heartless, so he made sure that his horse was going slowly enough that his guards could keep up with him with relative ease. He stared ahead imperiously, not really caring about all the whispering that was going on around him. Of course his people would whisper, he hadn't actually gone into the city itself in a very long time.

And so the Steward made his way through the great gates to see the two thousand people working on building the massive moat around the city. Denethor was astounded at how fast the half-vampire's troops worked. They tore through the earth as though it weren't there, outpacing all of the laborers, who picked up the pace to counter the other men's work. Shouts and orders were thick in the air, as well as the sound of digging and carting. The trench was appearing rapidly and efficiently. But this did not please the Steward. Denethor ground his teeth together in anger before he set out for the construction sight.

He looked through all the workers, trying to spot Durandir, but he didn't see the warrior. So he singled out a soldier who seemed to be giving the most orders, though the trooper himself was in the trench as well. The barebacked man worked just as hard, if not harder, than the men around him. As Denethor approached the trench, the laboring men grew quiet. The man he had singled out looked up in surprise as the shadow of Denethor's horse fell across him.

"What, pray tell, are you doing?" Denethor asked coldly. The man's reaction was not what he expected. Instead of bowing to him or saluting him, the man just looked at Denethor as though he didn't care who he was, or what he did. He stuck the blade of his shovel into the soft dirt at his feet, and leaned on the end of the shaft casually. When he noticed the twenty guards his eyes widened slightly, and he gave a short, piercing whistle that sounded like a birdcall, but not one that Denethor was familiar with.

"Well, sir, it's kind of obvious what I'm doing. I'm digging, just like my commanding officer told me to do." While the man talked, the whistle he had sounded was repeated further and further down the lines and masses of workers, and there were flurries of movement wherever the call was sounded. The dull murmur of men moving silently and lethally was heard all up and down the line. The hairs stood up on the back of Denethor's neck, even though it was sunny out and warm for early spring.

He locked eyes with the man in front of him, and he shivered. This was a man who would do whatever he was told, a myrmidon. Suddenly a shout broke the tension between the two. "Incoming!" someone warned loudly.

Denethor turned towards the shout, and watched as a Gondorian arrow arched over a section of the trench that had a divider, barely clearing the earth before Denethor lost sight of it through all the men. The Steward's eyes swept towards the wall of Minas Tirith where he could faintly see Durandir, a black speck among a line of silver colored Gondorian troops. He watched impatiently as the black speck moved, presumably heading for the nearest stairwell leading to the street.

Denethor turned back to the trench, and started in shock. Now only the Gondorian workers were in the trench, and they worked slowly as though frightened. All of Durandir's men were out of the trench, acting like they were on a break. But one thing that Denethor noticed was that they all had odd shaped staves with them, which they held lovingly, proving them to be the men's weapons. And most of the men had brutal looking melee weapons as well, nasty looking hand axes and keen knives. A good number of the troops were situated behind even larger and boxier staves that wee mounted upon tripods. As Denethor looked over the grim and calm faces of all the soldiers before him, he noticed even more differences in the staves.

Some men had extremely long staves resting on top of their shoulders, with a box in front of their shoulder, as well as two grips. Other staves had wooden stocks instead of the black and green material that he couldn't recognize of most of the other weapons. These wooden stocked weapons had tubes mounted on top of the barrel, like the extremely long staves had. And barrels were all that the long metal tubes that protruded out of the stocks could be. Other troops were squatted behind bulky looking staves that had bipods.

One of Denethor's guards shifted uneasily, and Denethor was broken out of his trance. He glared at the soldier who had broken his stance of attention, but he noticed the look of uneasiness on all of his guards' had on their faces.

"Denethor!" Durandir's confused voice called out. "What are you doing here?"

Denethor wheeled his horse around to face the oncoming half-vampire. "Finding out what you are mutilating my Pelennor fields for!" he growled loudly.

Durandir frowned as he slowed his jog down. He stopped in front of Denethor his hands crossing defiantly over his chest.

Durandir's POV:

_What the hell does this guy have up his ass? _Durandir fumed to himself. "These fields aren't yours," he paused, "_sir_!" he said as disrespectfully as possible. "You're simply holding them and caring for them until the return of the one and true king. "And anyway, it is obvious why I am 'mutilating' Pelennor Fields for. I'm trying to protect your people, a job which you suck at." Before Denethor could explode in rage, Durandir pointed at the massive trench.

"This trench," he started, "is located three hundred feet away from your outermost wall, well within bow range, even bows fired from the second and even third walls." A huge shadow suddenly fell upon them and moved rapidly along the ground while Denethor's horse squealed in terror. Durandir sighed as the Gondorian's all looked up to see Cerul dropping off a nice sized tree. _Hey Cerul, feel hungry for human flesh? _he asked with a slight flavor of humor to his thoughts.

He watched as Cerul landed and looked at him. Her head turned to stare at Denethor, and she grinned, a truly horrible sight. _'Maybe later, but I don't think the Gondorians would be happy if their Steward was eaten by me.' _Suddenly she chuckled, the sound reverberating inside of Durandir's head. _'Besides, I don't want to risk indigestion.'_

Durandir couldn't help the snort of laughter that burst from him, but he quickly started coughing while Denethor raised an eyebrow testily. "Sorry," he gasped as he watched a handful of his men descend upon the tree with axes, rapidly shaping slats out of the wood. "Anyway, the trench measures twenty-five feet across, and is ten feet deep at its deepest side. See that divider?"

"Yes," Denethor answered crankily, but Durandir was too excited about his work to care.

"It sticks five feet above the ground bordering my trench. From the crest of the divider to the edge of the trench farthest away from the city is fifteen feet, and the trough is five feet down, with a low enough slope so an arrow fired from the wall will not have any trouble finding the flesh of any cowering orc hiding behind the divider." Durandir watched Denethor's eyes and grinned evilly as a gleam of battle pride and lust of war appeared in the Steward's eyes. But the gleam faded as Denethor realized where he was. Durandir cursed silently to himself. _He was so close!_ he thought sadly. _So close to being the man that he used to be!_

He sighed heavily before he continued. "From the crest to the edge closest to the city is ten feet, with a depth of ten feet. The slope towards the city is steep enough that orcs hiding there will be protected, but even if they hide the Gondorian archers can angle their shots so the arrows fall down upon the orcs. And even if the orcs bypass the trench, they will have to deal with mines and the three hundred feet to the wall." He realized that Denethor actually looked interested, despite what he was trying to act like.

"What do you mean by mines? How can tunnels stop orcs?" he asked.

Durandir looked at him blankly for a few seconds, before he shook his head. "More on that later, my lord. I'm sure you've seen some tactical flaws with my plan, but I've realized them. There is no way in two hells that this could actually stop the orc army that will be coming, but I made it more to stop their siege equipment. If I can force their catapults and siege towers to a halt, my men and their weapons can destroy them."

Denethor pointed to the slender spikes that his men had made from the spare wood. Durandir had not ordered them to do that, but he was pleased to see them plant the spikes in the side of the trench closest to the city.

He grinned wickedly. "Those would be pungee sticks, sir. See how my men are laying them down like a thicket? That way you can't avoid them until you bury them with the bodies of your dead. And they are burying those slats one foot deep on the farthest side of the trench to try and discourage the orcs form digging out the divider." He stood at parade rest, waiting for Denethor's verdict. _Please accept, please accept!_

Denethor's face darkened with reawakened anger, and Durandir inwardly groaned. "I order you to fill in this trench!"

Durandir took in a deep breath, trying to quell his own rising anger. Unfortunately it didn't work. "Godammit! You can't do this to me! I refuse to do something that will result in the death of humans that are allied to me! I say fuck you, and your fucking order!" The instant those words left his mouth, he regretted them. This time he dug himself too deep.

Denethor turned to his guards, face deceptively calm. "Arrest this freak!" he snapped, and Durandir stiffened. How dare a _human_ call him a freak! He turned to glare at the guards, but realized he didn't need to. None of them had moved.

"My lord, we can't follow through on that order."

"And why not, soldier?" Denethor asked, his tone of voice prophesizing what insubordination would bring the soldier.

"My lord, I apologize for my and my fellow Citadel Guards' actions, but have you heard what they say about this guy out in the streets?"

"No, what have they been saying?" Denethor asked, almost sarcastically. But Durandir was curious. What had he done that had reached the ears of those in Minas Tirith?

"Well, there was a battle at Helm's Deep recently, and he fought there. At least, so say the rumors. He led a dark army against the traitor Saruman, and almost single-handedly destroyed the Isengard forces, which numbered a full twenty thousand!" the soldier almost shouted, but then his voice dropped down low. "And they also say that he fought a demon there with his bare hands and won."

Durandir almost burst out laughing. _Geez, rumors really do exaggerate things,_ he thought amusedly. Though he did wish what the rumors said was true, there was no way he could claim those deeds. Even if it would be nice to do so. "And that's not the only reason sir. If you hadn't noticed, the men under the half-vampire have been giving us looks as though they are daring us to do something, just so they would have an excuse to tear us apart. Added to that is the fact that they outnumber us five hundred-to-one, and have weapons that probably are better than ours." Now the man looked really uncomfortable. "And lastly, my lord, is this: the trench is a good idea. It gives us hope. That's what the people were whispering about while we were headed down here. They thought you were heading out to award Lord Durandir."

Denethor's faced turned beet red, and he looked like his heart might explode. Durandir looked at Denethor with a very smug grin. Personally he was very pleased. This said right to Denethor's face that he was a poor leader, and his people had no more hope in him. "So, Denethor, angry that I am actually trying to save your people's lives?"

Denethor looked at him, and in that instant, Durandir finally realized how tired the Steward really was. The Steward wearily sighed. "Durandir, may I please speak with you privately?"

Durandir nodded curtly, all serious now. He gave the hand signal to stand down, and continue previous actions to his men, and the almost palpable blanket of tension was lifted as his men started laughing and joking again as they headed for the trench again.

Durandir walked beside Denethor's horse as the Steward made the beautiful animal move forward slowly. He stopped, and Durandir watched as the horse bent its head down to taste the brown Pelennor grass. "What do you want, Durandir? Some land to your name, a position in the Gondorian nobility?"

Durandir scoffed irately. "Good gods, no. I just want to do what I have been trained to do for most of my life."

"What's that?" Denethor asked, and Durandir smelled the surprise on the man.

"Fight, my lord. Fight battles that are easy, fight battles that are horrifyingly difficult. Participate in invasions, as well as defenses. Perform stunning ambushes, and maneuver and outwit ambushes that have been sprung upon me. And that is why I have come here. I came to fight, and I will fight. There is nothing short of all the orcs of Mordor that could defeat Gondor with me at your side, and even if they do send all their troops, you also have at least a dozen thousand Rohirrim that I can give the orders to mobilize, for Theoden prepares for war at Dunharrow."

And there it was. The fire in his eyes! The power! Denethor had awakened, and he sat taller in his saddle. The Steward that the Gondorian people loved had returned, and Mordor would shrink from his will. And finally Durandir realized why Denethor had hated him. Durandir was doing things that Denethor should have done, but hadn't. Durandir was undermining Denethor's control, or so it seemed to the Steward.

"My lord!" Durandir exclaimed. "Now I truly see the father of Boromir! I will gladly serve thee!" As he spoke he dropped down to his right knee and bowed his head.

Denethor was silent for only a few seconds. "Rise, Durandir, and know that I accept your offer. May Mordor quail beneath the power of the free peoples of Arda! No longer will I look into the Palantir and be poisoned! Now my mind is clear, and I can see farther than I did with the seeing stone. From here on forward, all your deeds shall be done in my name, and I grant you leave to protect this city. You are the Lord of the Minas Tirith defenses."

Durandir could not misunderstand the feeling of fierce joy in his chest. It was the prelude of a battle, one that he was quite anxious for. He would kindle the hope in this city, and watch the Gondorians prove their worth in combat. "Good!" he said as he rose to his feet. "If I am not mistaken, you have your son Faramir posted at Osgiliath. His men are not strong enough to fight against the forces of Mordor. Their first invasion force will be at least two hundred thousand strong, and though that might seem impossible to hold against," he added hastily when he saw Denethor's face pale considerably, "we can mount countless losses upon them at Osgiliath when they try to cross the river. I would suggest sending a few battalions of archers to Osgiliath. Not many, at least two though not as many as five. Another regular infantry battalion wouldn't hurt, either." He looked above as Cerul flew overhead with another tree. "And my dragon will also inflict massive damage upon the orcs as they try to cross the river. The poor fools!" he chuckled darkly.

Denethor nodded. "So be it. Make this happen Durandir. You helped me wake up, and I will always remember this, and I will reward you with freedom to move as you will. Keep my people safe!"

Durandir nodded sharply, and as Denethor rode back to the city, he looked to the darkened sky over Mordor. He felt no fear, but great anticipation for the inevitable battle.


	27. Resurrection and shock

**AN- Wow, that is the longest chapter I have ever written in this story. It came out to be like thrirteen pages. Anyway, I hope you guys like this, and the rest of this note is at the end of the chapter.**

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Durandir stood at a table in the room that Denethor had given him, and he was bent over maps, papers showing troop movements, and supply redistributions. He sighed in frustration, and checked his watch. It read 2:03, and it sure as hell wasn't sunny outside. He moved away from the table, and headed for the small window that showed a great view of Pelennor Field, and way in the distance he saw Osgiliath, sitting on the Anduin River five miles away.

He looked down to a sleeping Minas Tirith, and then up to the stars that were slowly being veiled by the clouds of war from Mordor. Soon, very soon, Mordor would send its unholy beacon up from Minas Morgul. Durandir was betting either the next night, or the night after.

It was the second night after Denethor had given him the duty of building up the defenses of Minas Tirith, and it was only just the second day's late afternoon that his trench had finally been completed. And Durandir was wearier than he wished. Not only had he been upgrading his and his troops' equipment, but he had been making munitions for his soldiers and for defenses of the city. Standard anti-personnel and anti-tank mines, as well as claymores for the trench and gate. None of this equipment had been set up yet, for Durandir would do that as close to the attack as possible, to reduce the chance of accidents. He didn't want to have any incidents of kids getting their leg blown off or something unfortunate like that. Just thinking about that made him shudder. Vietnam all over again.

But at least he could look at it optimistically. Even though he was tired, he was even stronger than ever before. He could magically make something equivalent in weight and size of a horse every two hours without exerting himself overmuch, and his multiplication power was even more powerful. He could easily multiply the size and weight of a horse four times every half hour without becoming too fatigued.

He shook his head, trying to get his mind onto more important matters. The first thought that came to his mind was a question that had been bothering him for a while now. Why hadn't Mordor attacked already?

If everything had gone according to the movie, he should have barely arrived before the Mordor hordes. He wasn't really complaining about his lucky streak, but it still stuck at the back of his mind, worrying him. He moved over to the bed, extinguishing the light of the single candle.

He lay down tiredly. Alright, he had arrived a full four days after Gandalf had. Normally this would have been the day that the orcs had reached the city. He paused and laughed at his predicament. Normal in this world? _Here there be monsters,_ he reminded himself dully. And he was one of them. But still; elves, goblins, trolls, orcs, Ents, wargs, and yet there were men and fantastic civilizations. He blinked. _Dammit, get back on track._

He sighed, and began reviewing what was _supposed _to happen. Two days after Gandalf left for Gondor, the beacons had been lit, or so said the movies. In the books, they had been lit while Gandalf and Pippin were riding to Gondor. But so far everything had been going the movie way so far. So the day after the beacons had been lit Osgiliath was completely conquered by the orcs, and the day after that the orcs were finally able to march upon Minas Tirith. But why hadn't they? What had he done that had changed Sauron's outlook on things?

And then it hit him. He had looked into the Palantir, and had enough strength to fight against Sauron for at least a little while. And Sauron must have never met a half-vampire from earth before, nor had he seen any of the lands that Durandir showed him through memory. Plus Sauron might have sensed Durandir's power that was still locked away from Durandir's use, and become slightly wary.

Durandir stared at his stone ceiling, and thought to the power that he knew was there, and wished he knew how to access it. He could even feel it, but it refused to come to him, and it annoyed him to no end. And so when he wasn't doing the seemingly endless preparations for battle he was pushing his body to the max, shaping his battle chi to his will.

_At least that is one of our strengths_, he thought with exhaustion. If a vampire drove his body to the point between life and death then he would come back with the abilities that he had almost killed himself with. Already Durandir had done this to himself many times in the past two days. Scaring the shit out of his men, but that was the price he had to pay. And it was dangerous to push himself so hard, for if he misjudged the difference of life and death too much, he would drain himself, and die. Already he teetered on that dangerous edge twice, and Durandir never wanted to experience that again.

Without any warning, Durandir's muscles tightened painfully, and he curled up into the fetal position, trying to relax his muscles. He gasped as another large wave of pain wracked his body. He was pushing himself too hard, and if he wasn't careful, he would be no use for the upcoming battle. Then the pain left him just as quickly as it had arrived, leaving his muscles quaking with exhaustion.

He rolled out of bed, trying to concentrate. He knew that there was something that he had forgotten about the battle itself, something important. He stood, and almost fell back down to the ground. Forcing his body to cooperate, he stood again, this time slowly. He stumbled over to his table, and looked at all the papers, trying to keep his weary mind centered on the papers. _Let's see, the dispatch papers for the messenger to Theoden, telling the king to ride when I give the order, as well as a personal note saying that Cerul can fly the one hundred two leagues to Dunharrow in about four hours, including rest stops. _He stacked that small pile of parchment onto the corner of his desk. He looked at another piece of parchment that lay precariously on top of a detailed map of Gondor, and he looked at the figures on the parchment for a few seconds before he finally recognized what it was.

_Huh, the figures containing what forces Mordor will send against Minas Tirith. _His eyes flicked down the sheet, and when they settled upon one of the lines, they widened. _SHIT! The Mumakil that can pose a great threat to the Rohirrim. I have to figure out a way to counter them that won't fail._ Frantically his mind went through all the weapons he knew in detail, and finally he remembered one: the massive Mechem NTW-20 20mm anti-material rifle. Or cannon was more like it. _With twenty targets, a single shot weapon won't be fast enough, I'll have to modify the weapon so it uses a five shot magazine._

As he summoned his energy, he paused, and then let the power dissipate. He was too tired to try to make anything. He stumbled back to his bed, and fell down on it. Too tired to even undress, he closed his eyes and easily fell asleep.

And blinked his eyes open again. The sun shone through his window feebly, its rays only just piercing the clouds of Mordor. He groaned, and checked his watch. It read 10:07. Evidently he was more tired than he thought, for he had wanted to get up at dawn. Looking sleepily around his room, he took notice of the wardrobe in the corner. He had been too busy to really explore his room, so he didn't know if he had any clothes in there or not.

Yawning widely, he hopped out of bed, and sauntered over to the beautiful wardrobe. If he wasn't mistaken, that was cherry that was very well furbished. _Nice_, he thought. And as he opened up the wardrobe he realized that he was actually caring about his surroundings for something other than combat, an event that did not often happen. And he was pleased that the wardrobe was filled with clothes, some fancy that he did not care about, but others that were just for street usage, which was exactly what he wanted.

He gladly switched into the coarse wool hose and linen shirt before throwing on worn leather boots and a thick wool jacket before he donned comfortable fingerless gloves and a warm cap. He opened the door, squinting slightly as the sunlight struck his face. He stepped into the busy street, listening to the clamor of the people around him. _Time to find out what the Gondorians think of me and my men._

Many a grim face he saw, and the thing he saw the least was smiling people. And the chatter of the street was more about the slight rise of prices in the markets, and other such trivial matters that he didn't care two rat bums about. So he had to go where valuable information could always be found: a pub.

He 'accidentally' bumped into a soldier that marched with a column of Gondorian swordsmen. The resulting clatter caused heads to turn, but people soon lost interest, and business continued on as it had been. "I'm sorry, sir," Durandir apologized to the soldier as he steadied him with a firm hand. "I wasn't watching where I was going." He started away, well aware that the man's eyes still followed his form. He halted, and turned towards the staring soldier. "Hey, I bet that you can help me!" he exclaimed happily, squinting his eyes with a broad smile that still kept his teeth concealed. "I just came in from Morthond, and I was wondering if you could tell me where a decent pub is. All that traveling made me thirsty."

The man, who had been frowning slightly up to that point, suddenly broke a kind smile. "Yes, a nice tavern can be found on the first level. Once you get there, ask for the Golden Boar. Someone will help you get there."

Durandir gave an amiable wave as he turned around. "Thank you, kind sir," he called over his shoulder as he headed down the gentle slope of the road. For the rest of the journey from the sixth level to the first he was thinking. Thinking about Elenloth, and wishing she was there at Minas Tirith. He missed her terribly, and when he dreamt, the dreams were of her. He ached to feel her warmth against him, yearned to hear her laughter, and wished to see her beauty.

Normally his need for her was locked into a secret corner of his mind, for if his men found out, they would pick on him to no end, at least until he removed a couple of their heads, something he could never do to the proud and loyal Durvagorians under his command.

But now that he wasn't the emotionless leader that he had to act as while in front of his men, he brought out those emotions, and let them caress his heart and soul. As he passed the sentry point leading to the second level, he brought to mind all the times that he had simply held Elenloth. Not kiss, not lightly fondle, but just _hold_. He missed those times the most. When his body soaked in her warmth, and her smell lingered about him as he felt her soft body against his, those were the times he was the happiest.

But as he neared the gate that guarded the second level from the first, his heart strayed to darker feelings. _Sure you enjoyed being with her, _a small voice whispered in the back of his mind, _but did she enjoy being with you? She probably hated you all along. You owe nothing to these people. You could raze this city with your army after you defeat the forces of Mordor. Then fly to Mordor, and capture the ring! You could so easily rule this land, and have all the power in the world._

Durandir shook his head, and started walking faster, as though that line of thought was an annoying fly he could shake off, and outpace. But the dark desire still remained, feeding the vampire side to him.

He wandered around the first level of the city, taking all the beautiful stonework into view, and watching the people as they went about their daily lives, completely unaware of how close they were to being confronted by an enemy that they wouldn't be able to defeat. He looked at the Gondorians around him, and silently mumbled to himself, "Do I really want to destroy all the stories that each and every one of these people has to tell?"

_What do you owe these people? Nothing whatsoever. They despise what you are, fear and hate what you are. They judge you in the instant that they find out, and very few open their minds to your true personality. And their stories are not your story. You should only think of yourself, for self-preservation is the key to life._

Durandir blinked in surprise when he realized that he had found the Golden Boar without any help. He shook his head, trying to destroy the last fragments of darkness, but they still remained, only retreating to a corner of his mind.

He entered the tavern, with a bell ringing to show his entrance. He almost expected a smoke filled room full of laughter and merriment, but the room before him was clear of smoke, the floor and tables almost pristine in their cleanness, and only a handful of men perched at the bar. All conversations had ceased at the disturbance of his entrance.

He swallowed gently, and as he stepped forward into tavern, he chided himself. What was he afraid of, a few men enjoying some ale? He: the great warrior Durandir. It was folly! He stepped up to the bar, and smiled wearily, all part of his act.

"What'll you have?" the bartender asked as he cleaned a mug with a rag.

"A pint, if you have it," Durandir answered, all the while sizing up the bartender. He was middle aged, and was pretty well built for his profession. Maybe he also doubled as the bouncer, as well.

"Where are you from?" one of the men further down the bar asked, voice amiable. But Durandir sensed something he did not like in the air, a wariness that was in all the men's movements. The bartender filled the mug jerkily, and the conversations hadn't resumed among the other men.

"I came in from Morthond," Durandir cautiously replied.

"Oh really?" another man said, eyebrows going up in shock. "I have family there, and you don't speak like they do. And you certainly don't look like one of us."

"I traveled to Morthond from up north," Durandir countered.

One of the men who had taken a long draw out of his mug set it down, and looked to Durandir cryptically. "Where from?"

There was an awkward pause, and Durandir tried desperately to remember anywhere that was north of Gondor, all while keeping a calm composure. "I'm from…Esgaroth, near the Lonely Mountain. I traveled here to escape frequent orc raids from the Misty Mountains. Father always did say that Gondor was the strongest of all the men, so I figured I would be the safest here."

The bartender returned with his drink, and gave him a pitying look. "Listen lad, I'm not saying that Gondor isn't the strongest, but you came at the worst time. Rumor has it that a large orc attack is going to come any day now."

Durandir frowned in a concerned manner. "Really?"

"Oh, you've been drinking too much of your own ale, Orodreth!" one of the men retorted. Durandir took his drink and headed for a table in the corner.

"Wake me if it gets too late," he said as he dropped a silver piece on the table. Considering a pint cost only two coppers, he was paying for five drinks, a price which curbed any anger at solicitation.

"Certainly, uh…?"

"You can call me Dain."

"Right! Have a nice nap Dain, sir."

Durandir sat at the table and leaned back, closing his eyes, feigning sleep. The conversation picked up right where it left off.

"You dare to say that I have been drinking enough to make me soft-headed?"

"I'm sorry, Belegund, but I have to agree with Orodreth in this case," another man said.

"Have you all gone daft? I expected more from you, Bereg." Belegund snapped, almost angrily.

"Well, let's see you explain the arrival of those thousand soldiers, Belegund."

"Though it is good to see another thousand soldiers, look at what they have done to our city!"

"Prepare it for siege? That makes me happy," Orodreth offered.

"But they are defacing our city with their odd contraptions. And look at how they are dressed! Dressed in the colors of the earth, yet with a clothes style never seen before. They aren't from Gondor, nor are they like any men I've ever even heard of before."

"What was it that they called themselves?" Bereg asked, calming down Belegund, but only by a small fraction.

"I heard from one of them that they call themselves Durvagorians, but that sounds like no nation I've ever heard of," an unnamed voice said.

"They look strong enough to fend for themselves, wherever they are from. I could swear that not a one of them are under six-foot-two, and they all look stronger than an ox! The man that has me worried though, is their leader! They say that he is of vampire blood, and that he has Lord Denethor under a spell."

"I doubt that," Bereg countered. "Lord Denethor seems more alive than he was even less than a week ago. He used to let the city fend mostly for itself, not caring much of what happened, yet now he is seen in the streets, taking part in the preparation for battle."

"Still, he is vampire-"

"Ah, we wouldn't need him if Boromir were still alive." There was a chorus of agreements at this one. "I did hear that the leader of the Durvagorians told Denethor that Boromir was still alive. Who could have so much audacity!"

And that was when Durandir decided to 'resurrect' Boromir, bring him back from the dead, or more specifically, Dunharrow. The rest of the morning was spent listening to other gossip from the men, and basically all it was the continuation of the things he heard when he first started listening.

After the noon bell rang, Durandir 'waked' and lay another silver coin on the table, nodded to Orodreth, and left, heading back to his room. As he opened the door, he tried to decide what to do. One thing was immediately go to Dunharrow and get Boromir, but that just didn't feel right. He decided to wait until night, or near night, for it took a while even with Cerul's great speed to reach Dunharrow.

So he had about seven hours until he would take Cerul and leave, and he still had to get the Horn of Gondor from Denethor to give to its rightful owner, Boromir. First thing to do was to get ready for his day among his troops, for still there were preparations for him to complete, and he did not have long until the battle. He stripped off his Gondorian street clothes, and started pulling on his modified battle dress. First to come on were the under-shorts, quickly followed by the tight undershirt with silver collar.

He pulled on his over tunic, which was much like the one he had made himself at Edoras, only on this tunic, the right sleeve was removed for mobility, and while the left sleeve was the same, he had armor for his left arm, which was, of course, his guard arm. Armor which was now in his pack, stuffed there shortly after being made because Durandir had needed the extra room to make even more things for his soldiers. He quickly finished dressing, and the second after he had pulled on his boots, he headed over to the corner where his pack was sitting.

Durandir sighed as he crouched down and picked up the black rucksack that was worn almost to the point of being threadbare, but he could not stand the thought of parting with it, for he had been using it long before he had ever come to Middle Earth, and it was nice to have something that was so obviously his. He smiled softly as he thought of all the things that the backpack had been through as he started pulling out stuff that he had found useful over the years. _Rope, lock-pick set, gun cleaning kit, a harness to go with the rope, and finally_… Durandir paused as an old leather pouch fell out of the sack, pulled out with all the rest of the stuff. He stiffened as he recognized it. He had it for more than five centuries now, and hadn't opened it for that long. As he gently laid his fingers upon the leather, he debated whether or not to open it.

The content of the pouch was so powerful to him, that he had wished that he had never received it. Ever since he had gotten his revenge on his father he had had this pouch, and he did not really know what would happen if he opened this bag. People could never view him as the same, and his entire life would be thrown into a new direction.

He knew not for how long he kneeled there, staring at the bag in indecision, but after what seemed like a lifetime, Durandir picked up the tiny sack. His hands trembled slightly as he tried to untie the strings, and he felt a light sweat upon his forehead when the ancient leather refused to yield. Finally he just wormed a finger underneath the drawstring, and pulled hard, snapping the band in two. Opening the mouth of the sack, he tilted the pouch so that its contents would spill into his now clammy palm. He felt the object slide over the leather, and out dropped into his hand a ring.

A ring that bore a crest upon it, a signet ring that became his by blood and birth right when he killed his father. The ring that showed he was the rightful heir to the name of Cerridwen. His entire body trembled as he stared at the ring in his palm and he wished his father wasn't who he had been. He learned about his family's history only after killing his father, and by then it was too late. The House of Cerridwen was one of the three most powerful of the vampire noble houses. When he had told Denethor that he was of noble lineage, he was not lying. In terms of power and rank, he could have been named something akin to king or emperor of vampires, or at least that's what it could have been. He did not forget that Cerridwen was a name to be laughed at, for it had its fall two generations before Durandir's.

But now, now he had his men, and he had his ring. He was now the lord of all vampires, and those loyal to them. Not that that really accounted for much, but it was a start. And now it was time to drop his false name, for Durandir had only been an alias, a cover for one that was hated. Now he was the Lord Donovan Cerridwen, and so he would remain.

"Donovan," he whispered, and the name rolled off his tongue like a taste long lost yet long sought after and finally found. He slipped the ring on his right ring finger, and quickly pulled on his armor. The black leather did not look very protective, plus it only really covered to outer side of his arm, except for a full vambrace that lay snug against his forearm. But hidden inside the leather were bands of metal that was almost as strong as mithril, and just as light. His armor would only be a small hindrance. Even so, he moved his arm in all directions with creaks of leather, teaching his muscles to deal with the armor.

And now for the Mechem NTW-20. He concentrated, and the magic came easily to him, but there was that infernal hint of a power that was hidden, but ever so strong. He concentrated on the task at hand, and soon the full sixty pounds of cannon was before him, the weapon resting on its bipod.

He felt the ever so slight drain of the making, and grinned. When he had first come here, such a task would have been beyond him, even if he had the making power. And he was so many times physically stronger. He did not doubt that he would have nearly no difficulty in wielding his sword during the battle. He checked his watch, and nearly had a stroke. It was 5:56! He had spent much longer debating over his heritage than he had thought.

He wished he had someway of having nearly instantaneous communication between him and Matt, so he wouldn't have to…have to…. He punched himself in the head. A radio! Why didn't he make a radio before?

Donovan slid his katana through his belt sash and as he prepared to leave his room he wondered if he looked presentable. That thought stopped him cold. How long had it been since he had actually looked into a mirror? Surely not since Rivendell, for that was the only area where he had thought to do so.

He summoned himself a mirror, and as he peered into the surface of it, he was shocked. He had such a face? It seemed almost gaunt to him, with dead eyes staring dangerously back at him. No wonder the men at the bar had asked him those questions. With a virtual unkempt beard on his face, he looked a little insane. He was shocked at how much his facial hair had grown in the past weeks. It had never seemed to grow so fast before. He did not delay in grabbing his Ka-Bar. It was time to do a little shaving.

Using the mirror as a guide, he carefully scraped the razor sharp blade against his cheeks, and slowly, a goatee formed on his face. Five minutes after starting, Donovan looked in the mirror to inspect a now smooth face. _Good enough_, he decreed, and he turned and headed out the door, preparing to work with his men in making the last final preparations for siege.

Four hours later:

Donovan waited until the pair of guards passed below him before he dropped lightly from the ceiling to land silently on the floor of the Citadel. He did not know what would happen if he was caught, but he didn't really want to find out, either.

He pulled out his lock-picking tools, and within seconds, the door was unlocked. He silently turned the handle, and entered the room as quiet as a ghost. In a four poster bed lay the Steward, sleeping lightly. Donovan shut the door behind him, for he didn't want a guard noticing the open door. That would be a fairly idiotic mistake to make.

And he thanked whatever gods watching over him that he did not need a light. His eyes picked out every detail even in the dark room, and he stole forward, as silent as a shadow. There lay the cloven horn, right next to the Steward. Now was when Donovan cursed large beds, for to get the horn, he would have to lean upon the mattress, and that might wake the Steward.

He stood in front of the bed, reviewing all his options, when an idea came to him. He silently moved over to one side of the bed, and backed a few paces off. He ran as quietly as he could to the bed, and then dived over it, his right hand snatching the horn even as he passed over Denethor. Donovan hit the floor and rolled silently, coming to a halt. Now just to get to Cerul, and they could make their way to Dunharrow. Donovan mentally sighed. _Tonight is going to be very, very long, _he thought as he exited the Citadel just as quietly as he had entered.

As he walked around the edge of the Citadel so that he wouldn't be seen by any of the Gondorians he contacted Cerul, telling her it was time to leave. '_How?' _her draconic voice rumbled in his mind.

_I'll show you._ And once he was done, she was chuckling. _What?_

'_Nothing, it just seems like you like to do that a lot.'_

Donovan glanced around, and saw that he had gotten away without any problems. He looked to the very edge of the spire that was some fifty feet away, and swallowed. It was one thing to jump off the Orthanc Tower during the day, and quite another thing to leap off the Minas Tirith Spire after sunset. He silently prayed that dragons had very good eyesight at night as he started to run forward. As he picked up speed he wondered what would happen if he did actually hit the streets so many hundreds of feet below him. _I wonder how they would clean _that_ up, _he thought as he flung his body as far off the edge as he could. He went out about fifty feet before he started plummeting, and he got that odd sensation of falling in his lower abdomen. _Cerul, an appearance would be nice right about now, _he called out, and when he received no answer, almost started panicking.

But then he sensed the massive body to his left, and he looked over to see Cerul diving next to him, getting closer. Durandir was suddenly struck at how beautiful everything was. The cool air rushing past him, Cerul's sapphire blue scales almost a shiny navy blue in the starlight. But the beauty of things did not stop him from doing what he needed to do. Once the saddle horn was within his reach, he reached out and grabbed it, pulling himself into the saddle.

Cerul knew he was set before he even opened the mind link, and she angle out of her dive, and used the great velocity of her fall to her advantage. She was able to glide silently for a good twenty minutes after they left Minas Tirith.

Meanwhile Donovan was strapping himself in, not wanting to fall out just because he felt cocky about his abilities. Once he was settled, he took out the horn, and examined it carefully. He doubted that you could just make a duplicate and still get the magic that he felt tingling his hands. But his making power was good for more than just that. He carefully placed the two halves together, and once they looked flawless he placed his finger on the seam, and concentrated his magic there. As he brought his finger down the seam there was a golden glow as the horn was brought back together. He completed the other side quickly and efficiently. Settling back in the saddle, he had nothing to do but wait the long hours of travel.

And so he spoke with Cerul, asking her how she had been, had she been growing stronger, had she simply been enjoying herself, and other things. He learned many things during that flight, and their conversations certainly made things go faster.

It was when Donovan was trying to explain the presence of jet craft in his world when they arrived, and he wondered if he would meet Elenloth. What would happen then? How would he react? He shook his head, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand: get Boromir back to Gondor. Chances were that Elenloth was asleep, for it was almost one o'clock in the morning. That is, if she hadn't traveled with Aragorn on the dead paths, if he had even left yet.

Cerul landed on a small cliff that overlooked the Hold of Dunharrow, and Donovan could easily see the king's tent even from there. And the sight upon the fields that lay at the bottom of the Hold made him greatly happy, for there he could see at least twice as many tents as seen in the movie. He told Cerul to go anywhere she wished, for he might be a while. As he slid down the steep embankment, he looked for any clue that might lead him to Boromir's tent. When he thought he had spotted it, he smiled grimly. Hopefully Boromir wouldn't be too unhappy when he was woken up…

Elenloth's POV:

She just couldn't get to sleep, and hadn't been able to ever since she had left Edoras. And she was getting more and more tired every day, her elven strength slowly getting chipped away. She sighed, and rolled out of her cot, pulling on a pair of hose and a shirt. She pushed back her tent flap, and stepped out into the cool night air, and looked up to the stars. But for some reason, they just didn't make her feel better, even though they had always done so before. She felt like she didn't care, like an important part of her was missing.

She walked around the camp as she had done so many nights before. Legolas had tried to comfort her, but by now he knew it was of no use. As Elenloth wandered she wished that the ache in her soul would go away. She stepped around a tent, and halted in surprise. Someone was talking to Boromir, but she could only see the man's back. Boromir looked concerned, and then elated. The man of Gondor was smiling as he turned away and headed for his tent.

The man who had been talking to Boromir sighed loudly, and looked up to the stars as Elenloth had done. She stepped forward silently, coming close behind him. This man, his clothes were like Durandir's, as was his sword, but he couldn't be here. He was supposed to be in Gondor. Unless… realization hit her like a hammer. Minas Tirith could be under siege. But why then, would he have spoken to Boromir and not Theoden. She reached out her hand to touch the man's back, and he turned.

So many emotions in such a little amount of time. Surprise, shock, love, and deep sadness flickered across the man's eyes in golden waves as he saw her. But then his eyes returned to their flat black, and he looked at her with something akin to distaste.

"Dur…andir…" she whispered softly.

"Oh," he said flatly. "It's you."

**Told'ya. Okay, I have both good news, and bad news. Good news: I have posted links that will show weapons of the Durvagorian army and a picture that _I _drew of Durandir. They can be easily accessed by going to my profile. I would really appreciate it if you left me a private message telling me what you think of them.**

**Now for the bad news: I am not going to post another chapter until I have at least, _at least_, fifty-five reviews. I can simply sit here, and wait next to forever for that number, for I know what's going to happen next. You don't. You have to suffer until the big 55 come in, so hah!**

**In other words pleaseohpleaseohplease review!**


	28. No More Despair

**AN- _FINALLY!_** **What does it take to make people review? I dida cliffhanger and everything! Thanks to three people, only _three_, you shall now get the next chapter. I'm disappointed in all you 60+ people who actually visited the previous chapter. Don't think that I am submitting this chapter for you, I only do it for the people who care enough to review. Those that don't review are pathetic, in my opinion. I can understand a few of you not reviewing, but _more than sixty?_ Come on, at least show some decency. I have no restrictions, anyone can review. And you should pay some kind of price to read this story, even if you think it stinks. Putting in less than one minute, five minutes at most, to write what you think of my writing. Flame me, I don't care. I'll just have an interesting reply to write up. Praise me, and you shall be rewarded. I view my friends highly.**

**So shame on you, and praises to IloveOrlando08, Muddie21, and Um...Fan. I don't know where Dairokkan is, but hopefully that person will return from wherever soon so that he or she can review as well. And I'm not updating until 60 reviews are on the counter. Or until I am done with my next chapter, if I get more than 60 before I am done writing it.**

**Some lovely diagrams and photos of Durvagorian Standard Weaponry and a sketch of Donovan/Durandir can be found in my profile, for those that actually care. Feedback is appreciated.**

**I do not own Lord of the Rings, nor Middle Earth, nor Donovan's sword style. I do own any OCs that you meet, so hands off. And now onto the actual chapter before this author's note becomes longer than the actual chapter. And I'm not even going to beg for reviews. It would be unbecoming to beg for reviews, especially if I begged to those of you that don't.**

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The way he greeted her hurt more than she could imagine. The way his face looked after the first flurry of emotions was like a punch to her soul. Was this not the man who professed to love her with heart and soul? Later Elenloth would look back and wonder why she hadn't reacted at first with anger, but as Durandir glared impassively at her the only thing she felt was sadness. "Durandir, I…I don't know what to say…"

"Besides that you despise me?" he asked his voice growing sharper and louder with each passing word. "That you will counter all my moves, all my 'evils?' And it's not Durandir anymore."

"What?" she asked, surprised. When had the man before her been anything other than the Dark Wanderer?

"Do I really have to repeat myself? My name is no longer Durandir. I have accepted my past, and taken up my Earth name once again. You may call me Donovan." He crossed his arms, a ring on his right hand catching the starlight and flashing. "So what do you want? I have things to do, and I am needed back in Gondor soon."

And Elenloth could do was just stare at him. So much had changed in the short time they had been separated. He looked stronger, and not just in build. Now she could actually _feel_ his battle energy radiating off of him. He looked older, more tired as though he had long been fighting something deep and dark within him. It was then that she remembered what Gandalf had said to her at Edoras: '_Eventually his dark side will overpower the man that we have all come to admire._' And as she looked over Durandir, no…Donovan, she realized that she was the source of this suffering, that she had caused this struggle. And she hated herself for it. How could she call herself an elf who loved life when she had deliberately told a bold-faced lie that she knew would damage. She felt filthy, like an orc. "Dur…Donovan…I wanted to say that-"

"You hate me?" offered the half vampire bitterly, and at that Elenloth's temper rose.

"Stop telling me what to say, _cár lyg_!"

Donovan's POV:

His heart squeezed painfully when she said that, even though he was unsure of its meaning. Her eyes that he loved radiated hurt, and to his disgust it was he who had caused it. He so wanted to just reach out and pull her into his arms, but now his mask was up, and the mask did not show love, only a commander's anger.

"I'm not going to tell you! You are not human enough to receive my message!" Elenloth spat, and she turned to leave. Donovan wanted to say he was sorry, but instead reached out and grabbed her wrist.

Elenloth's POV:

When had he been so strong? Before if he grabbed someone, they couldn't escape, but at least they could make Donovan move with their struggles. But now as she frantically tugged her arm, his arm stayed in its position, grip slowly tightening. And his arm muscles didn't bulge, they only looked a little tensed.

_Why is he doing this?_ she thought in fear as the pressure on her wrist started to hurt.

_Because you caused his love to turn to hate, you fool. And now you are his enemy. And what does he do to his enemies?_ The pain grew to the point where Elenloth could barely stand it, bones creaking with the pressure being put on them. "You're hurting me," she whimpered as she fell to her knees, and instantly the hand was gone from her wrist. She looked up to see Donovan looking at his hand in fear and repulsion before the cold and hard mask came back on.

"You think you haven't hurt me?" he said softly, tears barely hidden. "Can you even imagine what it was like to be me, elleth?" His glare turned almost to hatred. His head tilted slightly up. "Let me have some time with her, Boromir," he said into the night.

"Just don't do anything you'll regret," came the reply from the darkness, then the sound of a man moving off.

Donovan brought his gaze back down to Elenloth. Anger glowed there, burning red in his eyes, eyes that Elenloth had loved when they were the soft gold of peacefulness. There was no peace now. "Why?" Donovan asked coldly, his voice like a knife.

"Why what?" Elenloth asked fearfully. _There is no way I can escape him if he decides to kill me. Maybe if I scream loud enough I can receive help._ She started to gather air into her lungs, but then stopped. _No, this is my problem, and bringing other people into it would just get them hurt. I have seen what this man can do._

"Why did you say you hate me? Is it true? Do you really hate me?" he asked, such deep sorrow in his voice that Elenloth wondered how he could live under its weight. And then she realized it. _His mask is crumbling, soon his emotions will come out._

She did not know how long she sat there, staring up at him as his eyes turned from the red of rage to the gold of pleading. He slowly knelt on the turf beside her, and softly took her hands into his. She took a deep breath, and looked deep into his eyes, tears coming to her own. "I'm so sorry, Donovan, but I can't answer that question," she sobbed, her voice raw with emotion. She turned, and ran. Ran like a coward from the largest battle in her life. But before she had turned she saw not anger but anguish in Donovan's eyes, anguish that must have stabbed deep into his soul. As she ran in the direction of her tent she heard the soft, heartbreaking cry that escaped Donovan's lips. Those eyes and that cry would haunt her for a long time.

Boromir's POV, some time later:

He sat just behind Donovan on the dragon, clutching tightly at the half-vampire's shoulders. He dared not look down again and see the land far below them, slowly passing by, lest he retch up whatever was left in his stomach. And he had thought being thrown at Helm's Deep was a bad experience!

"What was that that you gave to Theoden?" he shouted over the wind that was whistling sharply in his ears, as well as the steady beating of the great wings to either side of him.

"A radio, now we'll be able to tell the Rohirrim when to move without my having to ride all the way out here," Donovan answered, somehow not needing to shout.

"What did you and Elenloth talk about?" he asked, and regretted it when he felt Donovan tense up.

"I don't want to speak of that," Donovan said coldly.

"But I-"

"Don't."

Boromir sighed, and decided to switch the subject. "Why did you change your name, and what is that ring stand for?"

Donovan laughed. "Good choice of words, I was just trying to decide whether or not to make you walk the rest of the way. I decided to change my name mostly by random cause of events, in which this ring has a part of. Back on my home world, I am the lord of what used to be one of the most powerful houses in the vampire world. The house of Cerridwen. If you wanted to place me in your society in terms of rank I would be something like an emperor or high lord or some such," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He became silent for a short while and Boromir tried to understand what was just said. Donovan…a _High Lord_! And of the world of vampires, this must have been quite a feat. But then he realized what had been said. What used to be one of the most powerful houses, what was that supposed to mean?

As if to answer Boromir's unvoiced question, Donovan started to talk again. "Of course, I'm only taking that title because of the fact that there is now only one house…mine. So despite the fact that I am now the 'Lord of Vampires' all I have to my name is the vampire population of Arda, which is one, namely me, and all of my men, plus the magical abilities I have. If I was back on Earth, and I tried to present myself as an heir to the Cerridwen house, I would be laughed at, and then probably killed."

"Why?"

"Well, the house was destroyed while my grandfather ruled the house. But he only had one child with his wife, and he was evil. My father, who had a list of crimes as long as your sword. When the house fell, I had already been born, my mother lucky enough to actually survive his wrath. But what had happened was a group of the most powerful vampires and their best guards confronted my father's father. They told him to control his evil son, or they would declare war on the Cerridwens. He tried, and failed. It was a short but bloody war, and all but a few of the Cerridwen Clan was annihilated. In the confusion of the final battle, my father, who by then had become so enraged and crazy that he would have killed anyone, murdered his father by stabbing him in the back. He stole the family signet ring, and fled. He tried to start a new family power, but I found him.

"I, not even truly considered an adult vampire. Hell, I wasn't even one hundred. I truthfully looked like a teenager way back then, and I had the worst acne when I was that age. I tried taking on a vampire easily six hundred years old when I was armed with nothing but a short bow and a long knife. My anger had made me blind, and I overestimated my abilities, and really didn't give a care about the capabilities of my father. To say he beat me was an understatement. I nearly died, but kept on standing up, refusing to stop. Then the other house lords arrived, and evidently decided to let my father kill me before they killed him.

"Don't be shocked by this, for it was much more common than you would believe. Back then everything was hell: war, famine, plague. Who really cared if some vampires had some brutal fun with humans? And when the products of the 'fun' were found, they were given weapons, and told to claim revenge against their father. That way those vampires that still believed in decency could kill two birds with one stone, they killed the monster after he easily defeated his offspring.

"But I was different. Maybe it was because I had already fought in wars, and was a semi accomplished warrior. Maybe it was because I wasn't forced into killing my father, I had already wanted to. But it was an unsaid law that if the offspring was seemingly decent and actually won that battle, he had to be let go, or kept and educated, which was what happened to me."

"So you defeated your father?"

"I'm sitting before you, aren't I? And the only reason I am is because my father underestimated the strength of one who was in despair. He thought he had beaten me back down to the earth for the last time, so he strode over to pick my body up. I still held my long knife, but he didn't notice it, or didn't register it as a threat. So as he held my broken and bleeding body aloft, my closed eyes snapped open, and my arm became a blur. I stabbed him hard just behind his collar bone where the shoulder meets the neck.

"The knife went deep, and his blood welled forth, rich with his power. He slowly went to his knees, knife still in his body, pain preventing him from finishing the act of killing me. Before he died I drank his blood, for I had lost much of mine. I had not known then that I would inherit any of his magical abilities, for I was unversed in the ways of the vampire. Until my mother died, I had stayed on the farm except when called to battle by my king, living off of any animals I could find, be it rabbit, deer, or cow. But she passed away and I decided to kill my father for what he had done.

"And as my father finally died in my arms, I heard shocked applause. Up to that point, I thought that I had been alone with my father, but no, fifty or so vampires surrounded the clearing where we had fought. A vampire named Trythinius took me in, and treated me as an heir, for he had no son. I was gifted my father's ring in a leather pouch, and there it stayed until earlier this day.

"And Trythinius was a very kind old vampire. He was Roman, and had moved to Britain when his people tried to conquer that land. And he was wise, and had many friends among the vampire echelons. I learned the best of everything, swordsmanship in Japan, hand-to-hand martial arts in China, culture in Rome itself, and education in England. But shortly after America had its freedom from Britain, Trythinius and his wife were finally gifted a son, a beautiful little vampire.

"But I sensed that I was finally no longer welcome, for soon the house would be filled with the laughter of childhood, not the quiet of studies. So my long time friend and teacher sent me off to America where his nephew was. The nephew was named James. And in the beginning everything was great, we were nearly inseparable. But he had duties, for his house was prestigious, and I knew he was slightly envious of my free lifestyle, but I brushed those worries away. I now wish I had known just how deep that envy ran.

"I guess he finally fell into darkness when I captured the affections of Mary, who had been engaged to James shortly after they had been born, to seal a deal between James' house and hers, for at that time the two houses were nearly at war. But as the two grew up, peace was made, though the deal was kept on, merely as a form of honor. Mary herself called it off after I courted her for thirty-four years. James became mad with envy, and he murdered Mary while she lay sleeping in my arms. That alone cast me into the pits of living hell, and I went berserk, using all my formidable skills to kill all that came into my path. And I only know that because that is what I had been told, I remember nothing of my mad days," a bold-faced lie, "so I just have believe what I have heard.

"But I was eventually stopped by Trythinius, who had decided that he himself would have to counter what he had helped to create. I defeated him, but finally came back to my proper senses as he lay dying in my arms. I cried as he told me that he forgave me, that I was not entirely at fault."

Here Donovan's voice became ragged with held in tears. "And as he died and as I cursed myself for what I had done to my only father, I realized I had become completely surrounded by those that wanted to seek revenge for my killing of their house's head. I begged them to let Trythinius' son take revenge against me, for I had killed his father. But when the young vampire looked at me, his eyes held pity, not anger. 'I forgive you Donovan, head of the Cerridwen House. My father knew that he would be defeated for he was old, and tired. And he asked me to forgive you when he died. At first I had no want to do so, but upon seeing the regret, honor, and nobility in your eyes I realize that I have to.'"

He took a shaky breath, and Boromir watched as the half-vampire's hands came up to wipe at his face, and they came away wet with tears. "Can you imagine that Boromir, that I could be forgiven just because of how my eyes looked? I blessed the son of Trythinius in that hour, but we both knew I did not have long to live. 'Donovan, I pity you, because though I forgive you, my father's men do not. I truly am sorry.' And his eyes held the most profound sadness as the first sword stroke came down upon my head.

"Then came some of the most confusing times of my life. Going from time to time, place to place, always being sent to a new place when my death happened."

"Where did you get sent to the most?" Boromir asked.

"Generally Earth, only on different continents, always to places about to have a fight. I greatly helped the North Atlantic Empire, as did a handful of other vampires, for this was shortly after the great vampire burnings, which was actually a way I died once. The population of vampires decreased an astonishing amount, only ten percent survived the great purges, mainly from those in the more powerful houses, for they were able to make friends and build up their defenses.

"So vampires and humans made a shaky alliance, in which the vampires sent one man units to the aid of the humans, generally powerful vampires who made power bases in the militaries, but the weaker ones were either killed in battle or betrayed by their comrades, as had happened to me!" he snapped, voice angry. Then he sighed, and looked back to Boromir. "Did you know that I have died a full _twelve_ times? I really didn't use to care about whether or not I lived or died, in fact I wished I could lie in eternal sleep, instead of always being brought back. The same applies here in Arda. But then I met all of you, and you helped me care, especially one person."

"Elenloth," Boromir stated.

"Elenloth," Donovan echoed in agreement. "That's why it hurts to be rejected by her, for she had wanted to die at Amon Hen, and would have if not for me, just as you would have died. So we built our strengths upon each other without realizing it, and then Saruman placed that cursed love spell upon her, and then broke it away, leaving her in deep hatred of me. And since we had built our strengths up between the two of us, what happens when we are separated? We become unstable. I bet Elenloth has been off ever since Edoras, right?"

"You are correct. She doesn't seem to want to eat, not does she sleep, though she is clearly exhausted." Boromir paused, realizing what Donovan had said. "You said that you both would become unstable. What about you?"

"Me?" Donovan chuckled unpleasantly. "I have been thinking dark thoughts of late, thoughts that make me shudder when I bring them up. My chaotic side is growing stronger, and since that part of me is mostly the vampire part of me, I try not to let myself out much at night. If I lose myself, there will be no Trythinius to stop me.

"But when I was with Elenloth," he started, voice growing distant, "my vampire and human side merged flawlessly, there was no conflict. I was at my strongest when protecting her, because my chaotic and lawful sides were working in synch, there was no imbalance between my two souls. But when we are separated, I become darker, more brutal, and possess a strength that, though formidable at first sight, truly isn't my strongest.

"I can feel an immeasurable power source within me, one that I might do wonders with, but I believe I have to have both perfect balance of souls and motivation."

"An Elenloth in distress," Boromir guessed, remembering Helm's Deep.

"Right, and though I attacked in anger, that was because the vampire side of me was at its strongest in those moments. But as the fight dragged on and I grew more balanced, I felt something at the edge of my consciousness. I believe that I could access this without Elenloth ever having to be in trouble, now that I know it exists. But I need Elenloth to be in balance, and right now she hates me."

"Do you really believe that is true, Donovan?" Boromir challenged.

"When we talked we fought, and I forced a question upon her: did she hate me or no? She never answered, and my actions had caused her to flee in tears. So if she did not hate me, then she does now."

Donovan stopped as though he were listening to someone speaking. "Cerul says that she can see Minas Tirith. We should be there in less than five minutes. This makes me ask you a question. What is your dream horse?"

"What?" Boromir asked, completely befuddled.

"Oh, you'll see." Though Boromir could not see his friend's eyes, he knew they probably had a golden glint to them. Then he realized that he had called Donovan a friend, and truly meant it. Donovan trusted him with secrets that were shocking, and so he now knew Donovan even better than any other individual on the face of Arda. Even when he had told the Fellowship about himself as they had approached Caradhras so long ago he hadn't really told them anything except the general history of his world. And his feats in battle, and now as Boromir looked back, he realized just how smart Donovan really was. Donovan told them how strong he was and had been so they would see him as an asset, not an enemy.

But now Donovan shared things with him that no one else had ever heard. Except maybe the dragon, who he had shared thoughts with. That was kind of hard to beat.

Donovan's POV, outside the Citadel:

He pushed open the doors, and despite the fact that it was only a few minutes before dawn, Denethor sat upon the Steward's chair, a sour look on his face. "What troubles you, my lord?" Donovan called out, and Denethor looked at him in surprise. He had probably never seen Donovan when he was cleaned up, a thought that made him want to laugh. _Now who looks lordly?_ he wanted to ask, but that would be embarrassing, and it would screw everything up.

"Someone snuck into me bedchamber, and stole my son's horn! That is what's wrong. The Horn of Gondor is missing."

The second that sentence finished several things happened: the sun rose, illuminating the White City in all its splendor; Durandir called out in his mind _NOW!_ and suddenly the sound of a horn blowing caught the attention of everyone in the throne room. It was the loud three blasts that Boromir had sounded at Amon Hen, no doubt heard by Denethor a long time before he ever thought about sending Boromir to Rivendell, for he had held the horn in his youth, as had his father.

There was a breathless pause, and then everyone was running for the edge of the spire even as the horns rang about the city, waking its people. The Horn of Gondor rang three more times before Denethor reached the end of the Spire and looked down in an anxious hope that had bloomed in his chest. There was a rider approaching far below, a figure decked in silver armor, and sitting upon a pure white stallion. Even now there were shouts of: "Captain Boromir is alive! He has returned to us!" Cheers were heard throughout the entire city, and Donovan basked in the sudden reappearance of hope in Minas Tirith, and it made him feel proud that he had helped make this possible.

"Well, my lord, I guess miracles are possible after all," he said while trying to keep a straight face, and Denethor turned towards him sharply, but his face softened and a knowing glint appeared in his eyes.

"Yes, indeed it seems that such is so."


	29. It Begins

**AN- Okay, you guys are lucky. No more restrictions. I'll update once I get the stupid chapter written from now on. But it's not necessarily because you guys didn't review and I caved in; no, I just don't want those who review to actually have to wait too long.**

**I _know_ this chapter is shorter than usual. Deal with it. A lot happens, and the battle officially begins. So hah.**

**Thanks to all those who _did_ review, and curses to those that didn't. I wish bad luck upon you guys. Suffer for all I care. And now, without further ado, chap. 29.**

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Donovan watched as nine of his men broke open the crate before them, and the rifles were quickly distributed between the men. He grinned as the Corporal, a Durvagorian named David Âmul, made sure that the weapons' serial numbers were collected. Some of the Durvagorians caught on quickly, able to deal with Donovan's strict rules. "Jack," David told one of his men, "Go get your grenade launcher, and Peter, you go get your shotgun." The two men nodded, and headed off towards two different areas where weapons were being distributed.

Donovan approached the Corporal, and David snapped to attention when he saw the half-vampire. "At ease, Corporal. How are your men doing?"

"Very good, sir!" David answered crisply.

"Come, walk with me." Of course, David couldn't refuse. After all, it was _the _Dark Wanderer who had asked him, a man that most of the Durvagorians looked up to in the utmost respect. Donovan walked out of the storage room and towards the Great Gate. Durvagorians were everywhere, preparing the city for the upcoming battle. David turned his head to look at twelve Durvagorians who were lugging four Ma Deuces up to the walkway above the gate itself. He stared at the size of the ammo boxes that some of the men carried…they were huge!

Evidently Donovan noticed, for he started laughing, though the laugh was not one of amusement. "Over the past week and a half I have made so many weapons that it makes the head spin," Donovan said wistfully. A pair of Durvagorians ran past, a box of mines balanced carefully between the two of them.

"Sir?" David asked, confused as to what his lord was saying.

"Well, your weapons didn't just magically appear!" he laughed, and he paused amusedly. "Actually, come to think of it, they did. I have made you men seven-hundred sixty M16s. Add eighty M203s, Remington 870MCS's, and M249 light machine guns, and that's eighty each, mind you. A total of two hundred thirty-three Colt .45s were also created, and those are just the weapons of the light infantry companies, all eight hundred of you, and the side arms of the entire unit. Ten Mortars and ten Anti-material rifles.

"Twenty RAD sniper rifles, and twenty fifty caliber machine guns. One thousand Ka-Bar knives, and eight hundred tomahawks, be it Rifleman or Vietnam. Plus two hundred of those gun stock war clubs."

David grinned. "Yeah, Peter got himself one of those. Particularly nasty buggers, those weapons. Saw him practice throwing his. Didn't even know you could use one of the fuckers like that."

"And you know those five grenades you have? I had to make four _thousand_ M67s to sufficiently equip you with the bare requirement. An order will be passed throughout the army: don't use the grenades unless it's in the street situations. Follow that order, trust me. At least I had fun making the claymores. Eight hundred twenty, that is including the four equipped to all squads of the light infantry, by the way. But five hundred are out there," he nodded towards Pelennor Fields, "waiting to be detonated, along with five hundred standard anti-personnel mines and one hundred anti tank mines. And don't even get me started about ammunition, I'm going to be having nightmares about that for weeks to come as it is," he muttered darkly. He looked at David, who jumped under his scrutinizing stare. "Sixty thousand. That's how many rounds of M16 standard ammo is equipped to this army, not including the ammo stockpiles located along the walls. And you'll still probably run out of ammo, especially once the orcs get into this city, which they probably will in the end."

Donovan sighed heavily and walked out the Great Gate, watching units of Durvagorians bury and plant mines, as well as veritable thickets of pungee sticks. "'Scuse me, sir," a Durvagorian who had been adhering claymores to the two great outcroppings of stone on either side of the gate rushed past Donovan, checking to make sure that the detonation cords were set properly.

Donovan's radio crackled. He pulled it out of its holster. Keying the talk button, he held it near his mouth. "Donovan speaking. What is it? Over."

There was a short burst of static, and then Matt's voice was heard. "Sir, where do you want the mortars? Over." Donovan didn't have to think hard about that one.

"Fourth wall, over and out."

"Ten-four."

Donovan's radio grew silent again as several Durvagorians carried bundles upon bundles of pungee sticks out the gate. As another Durvagorian was heading through the gate into the city, Donovan grabbed his arm. "Sergeant, tell some of your men to guard the detonators for the mines. Let _no one _get within fifteen feet of them. Anyone who wants to leave the city has to be escorted by an officer who knows the location of all the mines and traps, understood? Otherwise none are allowed to leave this gate!"

The sergeant nodded, saluting Donovan, before turning and sprinting into the city, barking orders. Donovan picked up his radio. "Matt."

There was a short pause. "Yessir?"

"Tell whoever is in charge of the mines that once all of them are deployed to deactivate them."

"Sir?"

Donovan sighed before he keyed the talk button. "Each and every one of the pressure sensitive mines is able to be activated and deactivated be a remote control. There is one control for every hundred mines, remember? This lessens the chance of unfortunate accidents happening, like a Gondorian civilian getting his or her leg blown of just because they wanted to go for a happy little stroll through the bloody Pelennor!"

"Yessir, I'll relay that order."

"Be sure to, soldier." He replaced his walkie-talkie to its holster. He walked out so that he could shout to the Durvagorians that were on the wall directly above the gate, David still following him. Cupping his hands around his mouth, Donovan looked up to the men. "Hey!" he shouted. "Put four of those fifties above the gate. The rest of them should be at even intervals along the wall, understand?"

"Yes sir!" someone shouted back.

His radio came alive again. Before he could pick it up, a voice started speaking. "The m-ninety-one snipers are set up on the third wall as ordered. The fifty-cal snipers are set up on the spire, just like you said. End report, over and out."

"The mortars are up, positions marked with chalk, just as ordered sir."

"Mines are almost set out, only half an hour to go."

"Ammo nearly completely distributed. Ammo caches being set up on the wall."

Donovan smiled. It was finally all coming together now. The sun was about an hour from setting, and tonight had to be the night that Mordor would finally send its ungodly assault. The clouds of war had finally settled over Minas Tirith.

"Hullo, Durandir!" a flutelike voice said as a hand tugged on his pant leg. Donovan looked down to see Pippin smiling up at him.

"Hey, hobbit." He ruffled Pippin's hair. "Tonight, I think, your waiting will finally come to an end."

"I concur, Donovan," came a wise voice. Gandalf had come, the first time the half-vampire had seen him in a while. "It seems you have done my job for me," the wizard said, eyes twinkling merrily. "Hope has come yet again to Gondor. Boromir has returned, and this city is now prepared for siege."

"But are they prepared for the siege that is on the horizon?" Donovan asked seriously. He sighed, and turned towards David. "Dismissed, soldier. Return to your men, they should be done getting their gear."

The Durvagorian saluted snappily and ran back into the city. Donovan was happy to see that his men were able to complete the rest of the preparations without him. He picked up his radio. "Matt, you're now in command while I go rest for a short while. Don't forget to set up the HQ tent up with the radios like I specified. Understand?"

The radio hissed, and then, "Ten-four."

Donovan smiled toothily, and replaced the radio to its holster. "Well, Gandalf. I'm going to go rest. Could you have somebody wake me up when that beacon thing comes from Minas Morgul?" he asked.

One of Gandalf's eyebrows rose. "'Beacon thing'?"

"You'll see what I'm talking about. See you later Pippin." And with that he headed back into the city. As he walked past the bustling people of Gondor and the few knots of his own troops, he decided to visit the Golden Boar again. He found the tavern again with no problem, and stepped into it without hesitation.

All the men in the barroom turned and looked at him with shock. "Hey, Orodreth," he smiled, this time not hiding his teeth. "I guess I wasn't lying when I said that Boromir lived still, huh?" The men only continued to stare at him in shock. "Yes, I am Dain, but I am also Donovan, leader of the thousand soldiers that arrived a while ago."

"B-but…"

"But what? I just came to let you guys know that you shouldn't always doubt what you hear. See you later, if you don't die in the upcoming siege." And he turned and left. As he began to make the long journey up to his quarters, he was inwardly laughing, not caring that people made sure to stay away from him, making it so he was always alone. Even if he did notice, he wouldn't have cared. He had always been alone, at least until Elenloth had showed up, but now…

Donovan shook his head stubbornly as he entered his room. He would _not_ think about that right now, he had to stay focused. If he wasn't focused, he couldn't fight as well. But he could not stop the pain of his desire to see Elenloth again. Ever since she didn't answer his question even thinking of her brought such pain to his soul that it hurt, both physically and mentally. The conflict between the two halves of his soul was worsening. The pain ripped into his stomach and he felt like a weight was pressing down on his chest, making it almost impossible to breath.

Memories flashed to him: Elenloth smiling in the sunlight; laughing at something he had said; the way she felt when he had kissed her. _Concentrate on breathing, think of something else._ Cave troll, knife, stabbing the knee. Slowly the pain faded, and he felt as though he had run fifty miles. He was dimly aware of his vampire side feeling smug. He weakly crawled over to the bed, and fell into it. He was glad there would be a battle soon; his vampire side was getting bored. And a bored vampire is a dangerous vampire. He fell asleep at that thought.

And he was awake before the person even knocked upon the door. He grasped his katana and had it ready to draw when the knocks came. "Who is it?" he called out brazenly.

"Donovan, it is time," Gandalf's aged voice answered.

Donovan was ready to go within seconds. He strapped on his left arm's armor as he opened the door. "Good," he smiled wolfishly. He stepped into the street, the exact opposite of the white wizard. The dark warrior was finally ready for the largest battle in his life. _Cerul, can you meet me on the spire?_

'_Do you mean like last time?'_

_Yes._

'_I will be there.'_

Donovan sprinted as fast as he could to the spire after he said goodbye to Gandalf. He slid to a halt when he was at the gates of the Citadel. He could see the hellish green beam of light still coming from the far off city. He charged down the length of the spire and again leapt off of the gargantuan stone formation. As he fell he gave a wild scream of exhilaration. It was so wild to be falling to your death and get picked up by a dragon. Cerul this time fly parallel to the ground, timing it so she passed under Donovan just as he reached the saddle on her neck.

He landed hard, but took it in stride as he strapped himself in. _Shall we see what your flame can do to orcs?_

Cerul didn't answer via mind-link, she roared her acknowledgement. She blew over the Pelennor fields, wind whistling over her wings and body. They were flying so fast that they soared over Osgiliath in a matter of ten seconds, the city flashing by below them. They followed the road towards the ghostly city, exhilarated to the point of madness in their chance to finally strike at their enemies in a decisive first strike. A whistling shriek suddenly hit them, followed by a loud roar. The Witch-king and his fell mount. Though the screech hurt Donovan's ears, he felt no fear. Rather, the dark magic filled him with blood-lust. At that moment he so wished he had something that he could tear apart with his bare hands and watch its life blood soak the ground and sate his thirst.

He gave an insane and dark laugh as the long lines of the orc army finally came into view. As they hurtled towards the army, Donovan felt Cerul take a deep breath. Just as they were only two hundred yards away from the orcs Cerul let loose her fire.

It was like watching lightning-bright fire rage in terrible wrath. The bright beam of fire tore into the orcs, scattering them, burning them into nothingness as it rolled over the lines, the light illuminating the entire area as smoke started to fly into the air from the fire.

But then Donovan noticed something that made his blood run cold. The orcs that the dragon and half-vampire hadn't reached yet all had weapons that Donovan instantly recognized. Black-powder rifles from the Civil War era, and cannons from the same time. Though shocked at the sudden arrival of a dragon so close to their homeland, several hundred rifles are fired. The air was suddenly filled with hisses and snaps of bullets passing near the two.

Sparks flashed into the night as dozens of rounds hit Cerul. She screamed in agony and rage as a few of the bullets passed through her wings and punctured her strong draconic armor. "Cerul, GET US OUTTA HERE!"

Cerul needed no other prompting. She rocketed upward as fast as she could, exiting the range of the weapons. Leaving behind the remainders of her fires and several hundred thousand shocked, pissed, and scared orcs.

Once the dragon figured that she and her rider were safe, she leveled out, and began to glide towards Osgiliath. Donovan saw red. How dare they! How could they? There was no way that they could have that many firearms that quickly, it was a logistical nightmare. He had problems giving just one thousand people sufficient weapons and ammo. He saw thousands of rifles in that army. Maybe even tens of thousands. And there was only one person that he knew of that could make these weapons: James.

_I thought I killed that bastard at Helm's Deep!_ Donovan silently raged. And suddenly the logical part of his mind prevailed. There was no _way_ that James could have made that many at his current level of power. He needed another source of power, a weapon that could have the potential to make him ruler of Middle Earth. The One Ring of Power. Donovan's mind froze at that thought. _Gods help us!_


	30. The Battle for Gondor: Osgiliath

**AN- Okay, since last chapter was short, this one is long. I'm still pissed at non-reviewers. The ones that do sniffs You're my heroes! Finally, the battle begins. This is when things start to go to hell for both sides. This chapter has some serious Donovan hand-to-hand ass kicking action. That is fairly graphic. You have been warned.**

**As a note to the previous chapter- as to the Durvagorians saying the 'F' word all the time: deal with it. They are soldiers, soldiers swear. Especially the 'F' word. You can expect to hear it a lot in the future chapters.**

**Other than that: enjoy the chapter. (I wrote this in one day, just so you know how much I appreciate the REVIEWERS!)**

CHAPTER THIRTY

Donovan stood at the edge of the tower's top floor, and glared out over the Anduin, still as a stone. Cerul crouched directly behind him, growling as she licked her wounds. Now doubt was present in Donovan's mind, and he felt jumpy, nervous. He sighed, and leapt off the three story tower, landing just in front of Faramir, who had been walking along the shore of the Anduin.

The young lord jumped in surprise, and looked up from where Donovan had leapt from. "My lord, what I'm capable of isn't really important right now. The armies of Mordor are going to attack this city with two hundred thousand soldiers." He ignored the look of panic in Faramir's eyes. "You need to get ready."

Faramir frowned as he glanced over the mist ridden river. "How would you suggest that?" He brought his gaze back to Donovan. "My father placed you in charge of the defenses of Minas Tirith. There must have been good reason. Yet whatever the reason, that many orcs is hard to stop."

"How many archers do you have?" Donovan asked.

Faramir looked back at the city, the movement clear to Donovan even in the dark. "Some two thousand, now that we have reinforcements from the White City."

Donovan thought hard, trying to figure out how to best defend Osgiliath with only two thousand archers and half that number in swordsmen. "Faramir, give each of your companies an Area of Operation along the riverbank, in buildings with clear firing lanes to the river, of course. Tell them they must _not_ fall back, nor can they leave this designated area. It does not matter if the units flanking them are being overrun, it is imperative that they hold as long as possible."

Faramir frowned as he considered this. "Men along the entire riverbank of Osgiliath? We will be spread thin. Are you sure your method of defense will work?"

Donovan snorted with disbelief. "Whether or not it works doesn't necessarily concern me, son of Denethor."

"But-" Faramir started, obviously shocked.

"But my defense will work better than what could have happened had I not been here. The orcs would have attacked from an unforeseen direction and managed to land on this bank without a single loss. They would have overwhelmed you like a foul flood, routing the defense of this city by dawn. You would flee with barely a quarter of your forces still alive. But now, now you have the chance to hit the orcs when they are making the vulnerable crossing. You have the chance to slow them down."

Faramir sighed heavily. "You seem to be very wise, Donovan Cerridwen. You have a knack for military strategy." He suddenly gave a chuckle. A chuckle that sounded very nervous, but a chuckle nonetheless. "Though I admit, I have not seen the likes of your garb in all my days. Nor a blade shaped like yours."

Donovan grinned, and drew his katana, the steel flashing in the light. "This sword is superior in weight, speed, balance, and power to any sword that you have ever seen before." He paused. "At least any non-magical blade."

Faramir laughed, much more genuinely than the weak chuckle of before. "Are you so sure of its capabilities, then? Weight I can see, it is smaller than any long sword I have ever laid eyes upon, and it is also probably faster because of its slighter weight and size. But power? Balance?"

Donovan just smiled as he sheathed the katana in a brisk movement. He slid the sheath out of his belt. He walked casually through the cool night air to a column of stone that wasn't supporting anything. "I can see how you doubt my word, Faramir. But-" he dropped into the Battojutsu stance.

Faramir's POV:

_What is he expecting to do?_ Faramir wondered. _Does he really think he can_-

It was so fast that Faramir didn't even see it. All that he saw was a bright flash, and Donovan was sliding to a halt beyond the pillar. Faramir tried to make sense of what just happened. And then, right before his eyes, the pillar fell in two, cleanly cut through the middle. Faramir gaped at Donovan in horror as the man calmly sheathed his sword and walked back towards Faramir.

"How's that for power?" Donovan asked with barely hidden glee.

Faramir could only just stare at the cleaved pillar. He ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. "I'll go position the men," he said, voice shocked. _How in all of Gondor could he _do_ that?_

Donovan's POV:

Donovan rolled his eyes and snorted at the shock he had seen in Faramir's eyes. _And he thought _that_ was impressive? He's going to love it when I go full power. _He climbed up the tower where he had been standing before. He easily reached the top, and looked at the still bleeding Cerul with great sorrow clenching his heart. The dragon's friendship meant so much to him, yet he never had the chance to really show his gratitude. "How are you?" he asked quietly.

'_I'll live,'_ Cerul sniffed. _'I was fortunate. Only three got into my body, and seven went through my wings. It could have been a lot worse.'_

"You know that you will get your chance to have your revenge before dawn, right?" As soon as he finished talking, Donovan couldn't help but notice the feral gleam in Cerul's eyes. He was delighted.

'_They will all BURN in my fire. I will crush them like the bugs they are! No toys will save them from my fiery wrath!'_

Donovan grinned insanely. She was enraged. Good. She wouldn't hesitate to do anything to get her vengeance. You almost had to feel sorry for the orcs that would be coming. Almost. "Do you want any help?" he asked, pointing to her wounds. She turned her head towards him and growled, baring her teeth. "Fine," he said, raising his hands to show her that he understood. He turned from her form, and returned to his previous vantage point.

Now there was nothing to do except wait…and think. He sighed, and pulled out his radio. "Hey Matt, do you copy? HQ? Anyone hear me?"

There was a short pause before someone answered. "Yeah? Sir, is that you?"

"No, it's Santa Clause! Who am I speaking to?"

There was a long pause. "Uh, I am one of the HQ officers in charge of communications. And who the fuck is Santa Clause?"

Donovan paused awkwardly. "Santa Clause is…never mind that. Can you get Matt on the horn?"

"Yessir, give me a minute."

Donovan waited patiently for Matt to get on the air. After, he had time to kill. After he waited six minutes, Matt got on. "Sir?" his sleepy voice asked, the groggy voice indicating that Matt was contemplating coffee.

"Yeah, listen. Everything is probably going to go to hell tomorrow at Osgiliath. Can you get some men out here?"

"Uh…sir? The gates won't open for anybody until tomorrow. We _can't _get out to your position until tomorrow morning."

Donovan swore off the air. "Okay, can you get ready to have all the mortar units to move out as soon as possible? Also bring _all_ men with sniper rifles, as well as two units of regular infantry. Have everyone else stay where they are, in case the Nazgul attack. Do you copy?"

"…all other men stay where they are. Yeah, gotcha."

"And Matt? Radio Theoden, and tell him to move out in the morning. And try to get some sleep. You'll be needing it, most likely."

Matt laughed. "Alright sir. Stay alive, we'll be there ASAP. Over and out."

"Yeah, see you tomorrow." Donovan clicked off his radio. Now came the hard part: waiting. He sighed heavily. _What the hell am I doing?_ He owed absolutely nothing to any people of Middle Earth, yet here he was, with only one thousand other people that could stand up to the newly equipped forces of Mordor. Yes, the Gondorians could kill orcs. Yes, they had a large army. But what could some eight thousand two hundred fifty Gondorians with swords, bows, and spears do against two hundred _thousand_ orcs with advanced weaponry? At least twenty thousand orcs had rifles. They alone outnumbered the defenders. And they also had cannons. At least two hundred of such.

Yes, Donovan had his one thousand men, but one thousand against two hundred times their number? And they could any do so much damage, no matter what traps they had set up nor what weapons they had. Donovan suddenly wished he had given his men heavier 81mm mortars instead of the lighter, and less powerful, 60mm mortars.

He realized it with a start. He was going to die. And as Galadriel had said, this was his last chance. But there was nothing he could do. He hadn't given his men enough heavy weapons, and the orcs had enough weapons to completely obliterate his forces. And even if he stopped the siege and routed the enemy, there was still the battle of the Black Gate. Donovan tensed up as the thoughts whirled about his head. He could leave. Come dawn, he could fly to Minas Tirith, and tell his men to just pack up and go.

But he knew he couldn't. They would be caught eventually, and be completely destroyed. No, their battle was here, in Minas Tirith. He would die, and so would his men. This brought intense pain to his soul, for he loved his men and women as a father would. He wanted them to know peace for the first time in their life, yet he had lead them to death. What kind of leader was he?

He shivered. Who was he to try and save an entire world from another like him, but now so many times more powerful than before. He had almost lost to James at Helm's Deep, and now James had several armies of orcs, plus God knows what. And he now had the One Ring. He was powerful enough to overthrow Sauron and take his place. In physical form. He would be able to do battle, and Donovan knew that his arch-nemesis would not hesitate to come forth and crush the armies of man.

He sighed with regret. He and James were doing so much damage to Arda. And Donovan had no choice but to continue to continue this destruction until one of them was dead. This would probably be him. After all, what power did he have over the new Dark Lord? One thousand men, equipped with weapons that shouldn't exist for several more eons. It was these men against an entire nation that was equipped with black-powder rifles, cannons, sword, bow, and evil. It was hopeless.

Donovan tried desperately to get into a different line of thinking. He tried to bring back hope, yet failed miserably. _After all, what do I have to live for?_ Donovan asked himself bitterly. _My 'true love' despises me, and people hate what I am, and will always hate what I am. They do not judge my character, they judge my lineage. Foolish bastards._

_Fuck it,_ he thought angrily,_ I may not have hope, but I sure as hell have what pride I have left. I will fight, and fight until I either die or my enemies lie ruined before my feet. I will show through the valor of my actions that I am not an evil creature to be despised. Rather, I am a warrior to be respected. I am a lord, and I will fight as such. My birth right will give me pride, and I can fight for pride, if nothing else._

But he knew there was more to it than just pride. There was also the need to claim revenge against James, who had caused so much misery. He would do everything in his power to destroy the bastard. A vortex of cold anger set in place inside him, and Donovan knew that now he would fight to his full capabilities.

And he knew that with Cerul wounded, he needed a weapon besides a sword. He thought of all the small arms weapons he had ever used, and which one would be of the greatest use in this situation. His first thought was of the weapons he had given his men, the M16, or maybe even an M4 Carbine. But he wanted something with greater stopping power. So he could use the old M14, for he knew that the 7.62mm rifle could stop a charging bull. But what he needed was a weapon that was more compact.

He concentrated, pondering the usage of an FN FAL, or maybe the British derivative of the heavy rifle, the L1A1. But both were as big as the M14, as well as heavier. He tried to remember, because he knew that there was a rifle that fir the description of what he wanted. And then he remembered.

It was an American firm, DSA. They produced FALs from the original blueprints used by Fabrique Nationale, the initial makers of the FAL. Donovan knew that they were primarily designed for the law enforcement market. These American made weapons were designated the SA58, and had numerous minor improvements from the original FAL design, such as improved accuracy upgrades and a better muzzle brake to reduce recoil. And the one variant that Donovan had used was the OSW(MS), the Offensive Suppression Weapon (Military Specifications). **AN- this weapon does exist, just not in Military Specification variant. I made that part up. Hee-hee.** He had loved that rifle, and it came with several built in upgrades over the original SA58s.

It had a compact barrel with a well built redesigned gas system, a better muzzle brake, a folding stock, and a number of accessory rails. It was about the size of a M4, but it used 7.62mm rounds compared to the lighter 5.56mm of the M4 and M16, and was similar in looks to the FAL. And through the Mil-spec, it was able to survive through some of the shittiest conditions on earth. It was a better weapon than the M16 in that aspect, which was relatively easy to jam. And it used optical sights like those on the later models of the M4 instead of the iron sights used before.

Donovan did not hesitate to make the rifle. Once the weapon was made, Donovan also made a tactical load-bearing vest to go with the weapon, a vest with plenty of ammo pouches big enough for the bulky magazines of the OSW. He easily made ten magazines of hollow point ammo. Despite the fact that it was slightly harder to hit targets with a hollow point, they did more damage. Which suited Donovan just fine. After he finished slipping the magazines into the pouches he made a pistol belt with even more clip-on ammo pouches.

He paused. _Wait, the clothes I have on now, though fitting my mood, isn't really going to serve my needs._ He sighed, and checked to see if there was anyone approaching. No hearts drew near. He easily made the BDU shirt and pants. He had made himself 'Iron Tough' BDUs, which meant that the shirt only had two chest pockets, allowing him, by military regulation, to tuck the shirt into the pants. As an afterthought, he also made some Under Armor clothes as well. A sleeveless shirt as well as a pair of boxer briefs.

He really didn't want to be in a battle in which he will be sweating, no doubt, and have to worry about a sweaty shirt or briefs. It could get very uncomfortable and if he didn't have the time to try and get more comfortable he could be stuck in an uncomfortable situation.

He changed quickly into the clothes he made, tucking the pant legs into the combat boots he already had. _It is time to use the orcs' weapon against them. They will learn to fear the night._ He made himself Kevlar sleeves that would help protect his forearms and wrists as well as hide his skin from view. A pair of Kevlar gloves protected his hands.

The belt around his waist was a Rescue Rigger belt, which could be used as a rappelling harness in an emergency. Donovan was going to be as prepared as possible, regardless of what he thought he might be facing. Which also meant making anchor pitons.

Donovan pulled on his tactical load-bearing vest, and did up all the buckles. A crooked grin came to Donovan's face. Now he could make the knives. He made himself a KaBar, only this one had an epoxy powder coating so the blade didn't flash in light. And the half of the blade closest to the hilt was serrated. He was going to have a lot of fun with it. He secured the sheath on his belt.

He also made a Tanto boot knife, the blade perfectly angled for deep stab wounds. Also made was a Ranger shank and an Elite Forces Tactical Knife. All blades had epoxy covered blades. Four knives, three of which were in concealed places. Plus his katana.

Finishing his equipment was a Kevlar hood and black NVG Goggles. All of his gear, even the 150 feet of rope he slung diagonally across his body, was black. Once more, Donovan became a creature of shadow. This suited his vampire side just fine.

He looked down to the river, and saw the barges, with torches lit, start to slowly go across the river. Even in the darkness and with polarized goggles, Donovan could see like it was midday, and he did not miss the fact that there were more barges than there had been in the movie, and were assaulting from a much broader area. Donovan calmly made a silencer for his rifle, as well as a laser sight. He attached the laser to one of the accessory rails of his rifle, and screwed on the silencer.

He heard the sudden hissing of arrows being released into the air. Suddenly the sky over the river was filled with the snaps and whines of thousands of arrows. Within a heartbeat there were orc screams and shouts of surprise. Then the crackling roar of hundreds of orc rifles being fired. There were exclamations of surprise from the men, but through the absence of the smell of blood freshly spilt, Donovan noted that most of the shots missed. But then something more troubling happened.

The cannons on the enemy side of the Anduin fired in a thunderous volley, cannonballs whistling through the air before crashing and exploding on the Gondorian side. "Cerul, can you stop those cannons?" Donovan shouted.

Cerul's eyes gleamed in sudden rage, and her mighty wings suddenly lifted her into the sky. A sudden roar blasted through the night, louder than any explosion happening down below. Even Donovan had to cover his ears in pain. Donovan looked up to see bright blue balls of lightning-fire raining out of the skies like a god-defying meteor storm. The fireballs slammed into the orcs' shore and city. Donovan closed his eyes in pain. Even through his goggles, the light of the explosions was painfully bright to see. When he opened his eyes, his jaw dropped in awe. The entire orc shoreline was a solid strip of white-hot infernos. Donovan watched in shock as the fire devoured everything: wood, orc, stone, and metal. All it touched burned, and no more cannons fired. The orcs were barred from the river, they could no longer get troops to the river's edge.

The fires lit up the night so it was brighter even than midday. Everything was illuminated, including the orcs upon the river. Now the men didn't have to aim below the torches, they could clearly see the orcs in the barges. Donovan felt Cerul watch in smug satisfaction before the dragon turned and headed back towards Minas Tirith. Donovan didn't try to stop her, she was wounded, and her fires were nearly spent. And it was more interesting to watch the massacre happening in the river.

The orcs couldn't retreat, the ungodly fires were consuming the shore, barring them from retreat. Nor could they move forward. The orcs were reminded that Gondorians were accomplished archers when they were caught in the storms of arrows. The logic was simple. To row, you had to stand. To stand meant nearly instantaneous death.

The Gondorians started to shoot fire arrows at the barges, and the orcs could do nothing except wait and burn, or jump and drown or get shot by the archers. Soon all of the barges were either aflame or sinking, or coffins for dozens of arrow ridden orcs. Donovan felt the blood lust burn through him. His vampire side reveled in chaos and death, and he had a front row seat to an example of both of these.

And the orcs on the other side of the river were having no luck in dousing the fires. If they tried to use water to put it out, it would turn to steam before it touched the flames. Any dirt that was thrown upon the fire, it was just adding fuel to keep the inferno burning. What's more, any orc unfortunate to come within ten feet of the blaze spontaneously combusted, the heat was so intense.

So the orcs could do nothing but wait until the fires died down, which would be early the next morning. But come dawn, all hell would break loose as the orcs tried to make up for lost time. One man could defend better than an entire garrison in this case. Plus he could easily make a few 'fire' magazines. The magic shells would aid greatly in fighting the orcs, and the Nazgul as well.

And so Donovan leapt off his tower again, and sought out Faramir, ignoring the odd stares he got from the rest of the Gondorians. He pulled the goggles off and let them hang around his neck and moved the Kevlar hood so that more than just his eyes could be seen.

Once he saw the young lord talking with some of his captains, he cleared his throat. Faramir turned, and looked at him in shock. Donovan couldn't help but smile to himself. _He must be racking his brains, trying to figure out where I got this stuff._

"My lord, you have to abandon the city." He ignored the angry gasps of the men standing around him, instead he kept eye contact with Faramir. "When dawn comes, the orcs are going the pound this city with volley after volley of cannon fire. And cannons are those things that caused explosions on this side of the river."

Faramir's eyes widened in shocked surprise. "So you think it would be safe to abandon the last defense of Minas Tirith and face my father's wrath?" he asked evenly.

Donovan shrugged, scratching his nose while looking almost bored. "Hey, you're going to lose the city eventually, you might as well lose it before you suffer hundreds of casualties trying to hold it. As I already said, by dawn, this side of the city will be showered with artillery and rifle fire. More on that later," he added, when he saw Faramir's confused eyes. "But you know as well as I that your bows, swords, and armor would falter under the onslaught. It will be a repetition of tonight, only we will be the ones suffering casualties."

"But to completely abandon this city…" Faramir muttered as he looked towards the river.

"Who said that it would be completely abandoned? You should leave before the orcs can strike you. I know this will anger Denethor, but I would much rather not lose the entire garrison defending a city that will fall. You should leave just before dawn so you'll arrive at the city just as the gates open." He held Faramir's grey eyed gaze with a cold glare of his own, and a look of understanding came to Faramir's eyes.

"Prepare the men to leave," he called out, and there was a bustle of movement at his order. "You plan to stay." It was not a question.

"Yes, I'll stay and hold back the forces of Mordor until my men are set up. Then I will fall back as well."

"There's no way you could survive though! How can one man hold back an army of thousands of thousands? Retreat with us, please!"

"Whoever said I was only of the blood of man?" Donovan asked before he slowly bared his teeth, the long canines glistening. Faramir flinched. "Sometimes you need to use an evil thing to destroy other evil things. Well, here I am!" he smirked as he spread his arms wide.

Faramir looked at him apprehensively. "I had heard the rumors, yet dismissed them without a second thought."

"Why, because a learned man shouldn't believe in such bedtime stories?" He paused. "No, of course you wouldn't believe them. And yet I stand here as proof. I, a half-vampire." He glared at Faramir before sighing. "I need to go prepare, and you have your men to attend to. I will see you at the city."

Faramir nodded before he walked off. Donovan melted into the shadows so that when Faramir turned around to say something else, it looked as if the half-vampire had disappeared, never to be seen again, possibly a figment of the imagination, something that had never existed in the first place.

Donovan sighed and shook his head before he turned and headed back to his tower. He easily clambered up it, his gloved hands easily finding flaws in the masonry that they could cling to. He soon reached his little rooftop, and resumed watching after he pulled the hood back over his face and replaced the goggles, turning back into a faceless creature of the night. Before he had been there for five minutes, he stirred, and made a dropped leg pouch for more magazines. After attaching the pouch's rigging to his belt and left leg, he made four 'fire' magazines for use in the near future. He stowed the magazines away in the new pouch, and waited.

He felt, rather than saw, the new dawn. The clouds of Mordor made it almost like night, darker than it had been in the movies. Perfect. He liked the dark, it was his best friend. His stealth and senses meant that he could hide in the dark, and his prey couldn't. Soon. Soon it would be time to hunt. The feral part of his consciousness sensed this, and slowly his senses blossomed, sensing all around him.

He turned, and saw the Gondorians march out of the city, instead of the panicked fleeing that would have happened otherwise. He watched the column leave the city for a short while before his eyes turned back towards the orc side of the river. _How will I do this?_ he asked himself pensively. They would probably try to cross over the main bridge, there was no way that they would attempt another boat crossing. Not after the last one ended so horribly.

He sighed, and watched as the fires finally died down on the orc side of the river. _It begins_.

Indeed it had. With a roar that was probably heard in Rivendell, all of the orc cannons fired. The cannons did well, there were hundreds of explosions all along the Gondorian side of the river. They fired another stunning volley, and then another, until all the positions that would usually be filled with Gondorians were decimated. After six such volleys, the cannons stopped firing. All was still, and evidently the orcs were waiting for some kind of a response. But when not even the agonized shouting of those who were dying or wounded was heard, the orcs decided it was safe. _Poor bastards,_ was Donovan's only thought as he headed to the main bridge.

Donovan had thought right. As he arrived at the bridge, hundreds of orcs were seen laying down a makeshift wooden bridge across one of the many gaps. They crossed two others before they noticed him. He saw shock cross their faces as they stared at him. After all, didn't they think that Osgiliath was unmanned, and theirs for the taking. Yet here there was a soldier.

Then the orcs started to laugh at Donovan. After all, what could one soldier do to an army of orcs? The orcs began to march fearlessly forward again. None of them even bothered to try and shoot Donovan. And this was their biggest mistake.

Donovan calmly unslung the OSW, flicked the laser sight on, and pulled a fire magazine out of the dropped leg pouch. The orcs passed another gap. He slapped the mag into the rifle, and racked back the bolt. Slapping it forward, he smoothly brought the rifle to his shoulder. He aimed down at the orcs in the morning gloom.

And the orcs slowed, pausing, with doubt suddenly visible on their faces. Maybe it was the way that Donovan remained at the bridge, or maybe it was the fact that there was nothing that could be linked to living beings about him. He was as dark as one of their Nazgul: faceless, fearless, and beyond deadly.

A handful of the orcs, probably realizing just how much danger they were in, reached for their rifles, which had been slung on their shoulders. They were never given the chance to touch the weapons.

Donovan fired three times so rapidly that it sounded like one long shot. The fire beams that erupted out of the rifle tore straight down the center of the orcs, just to the left, and just to the right, all shots angled to do the most damage. Huge swaths were blown into the orc formation, and the orcs that were caught near the beams caught on fire, their agonized screams filling the air. They leapt for the river, trying to douse themselves, forgetting in their panic that they would drown with all their equipment on.

The bridge was soon cleared, except for the few remaining charred corpses. Soon there was no movement near the bridge, though a few orcs tried to shoot Donovan from other vantage points. But none came near enough to even concern the half-vampire.

Suddenly a shadow fell upon Donovan's heart, as well as the insatiable need to kill, maim, and hurt. _Nazgul_, he thought just as the bone chilling shriek sounded above him. Donovan quickly aimed his rifle up into the air at the three Nazgul dropping towards him.

He let off two rounds, and the fiery beams lanced through the air to slice through the lead Nazgul like a hot knife through butter. The second fell beast also shared the same fate. Yet even as the two flaming and ruined bodies dropped into the Anduin, the third fell beast reached Donovan.

He desperately leapt to the side as the huge talons tore into the ground where he used to be. The second his feet touched the ground, he had to dodge again, this time avoiding the massive tail of the Nazgul, which slammed into the ground like a wrecking ball. He spun upon landing, bearing his aim upon the flying away fell beast. He fired twice, and the two shots tore into the massive creature, shearing off its left wing, and tearing into its body. The burning body rammed into a tower, glancing off the stone in a shower of rubble before sliding to a smoking halt.

Feeling the presence of a couple hundred hearts over the bridge, Donovan spun to see an oncoming wall of orcs. They had their rifles pointed towards him, and fired just as he did. He got off three shots before he himself was hit.

His left arm and side exploded in pain, and his right leg felt as though someone buried a red hot pick into it. He collapsed, barely aware of the agonized screams that came from the orc lines. He pulled himself away from the bridge, and into a nearby ruined building.

Slowly the pain of the wounds lessened as his healing abilities came into play, and he checked to see what had happened. A shot had torn clean through his right thigh, and another had grazed along his left forearm and tore against his rib cage. He pulled out his radio. "Guys?" he asked. "How close are you to being deployed?"

"We'll be good in ten more minutes, sir."

Donovan cursed. He heard the orcs finally gain a foothold on the Gondorian shore. "Get it done fast. Wait for me to call you. Until then, absolute radio silence."

He turned the radio off, and slung the rifle diagonally across his back after he turned the laser off. Now it was time for some blade work. He drew his main KaBar, and moved out, trying to find a few orcs he could kill silently. He maneuvered his way into a more tight part of the city, with great ambush points and hiding spots. The orcs would arrive soon.

He felt a couple right behind him, and he clambered up the wall, legs braced on either side of the corridor. He stood just over the door way, and unless the orcs looked up the second they came in, he would remain hidden. Plus it was dark and shadowy in the room. He froze as the orcs came in below him, and they sniffed like a couple of dogs.

"Ûsizg ta tulishi," one said in a guttural tongue that Donovan assumed was orcish, or maybe even Black Speech. The half-vampire leaned back so that he hung upside down silently. He tapped the rearmost one on the shoulder, and he spun. Before the orc could say a word Donovan stabbed it through the face with the KaBar, and wrenched down, the blade tearing through the nose and jaw of the orc, and blood spurted into the air. Before the body hit the floor he flipped, landed on his feet, and charged forward. The other orc had heard the stabbing noise, and had begun to turn around. He also never got the chance to say anything. Donovan had reached the orc's side and grabbed his shoulder. Pulling the creature so it faced him, Donovan slammed it in the chest with an open palm, sending the orc flying back, only to hit the wall head first. The head punched into the wall, and the body sagged, still supported by the head.

Donovan cleaned his knife, and sheathed it when he heard more orc voices approaching. He drew his katana, and blew out of the room as fast as he could. He could easily see the horror on the orcs' faces. It must have seemed to them that a demon or wraith had just flown out of the room to claim their lives. In a matter of seconds, five of the six orcs were dead. The last one lay one the ground twitching as it bled out from a massive neck wound. Donovan pulled off his goggles and hood. He hadn't eaten in so long, and he needed to feed, no matter what he was feeding off of.

He grabbed hold of the orc's breastplate, and clamped his other hand over its face, smothering it. He sank his teeth into the orc, and even as he drank he pushed with both hands until the popping of the orc's neck breaking could be heard.

He dropped the drained and broken body as he stood up. He spit out the last mouthful of blood, disgusted with the taste. "Normally I'm not so violent when I feed," he muttered to himself. He scoffed. "As if I care." He flicked the blade, the blood splashing off the blade and onto the walls. He sheathed the katana with a smooth movement. And pulled out his radio. Flicking it on, he brought it to his mouth. "Yo, Matt. You set up yet? I'm getting kinda pressed." At least he always felt good after feeding. The euphoria was nice.

"Yes sir, once you are ready, you can pull back. Get outta there sir."

"See you in five." Donovan climbed up the nearest wall. Pausing at the top to replace his hood and goggles, he moved again, running from roof to roof, leaping over alleys and streets. He easily made it to the edge of the city without anymore problems, and the orcs hadn't even made it that far yet. They were still near the river, searching for him. He ran towards the forward skirmish line that his men had set up, and they greeted him, barely looking twice at his new apparel. "All right, let's get back to Minas Tirith." He looked back at Osgiliath, the city that was now in the hands of the orcs. He turned towards Minas Tirith, and began moving. _Well, _he smirked, _at least they had to pay a high price for that real estate._


	31. Battle for Gondor: First Day

**AN- Holy cripes! You _reviewers_ are lucky that I like you. This is another long ass chapter written in one day. I didn't work on it yesterday, like I should have, so I crammed it all into today. Finally, the battle truly begins. We get to see some old friends (muddie, this is just for you) and new plot twists to both the movie and book happen. I am so screwing this entire story up, and I'm enjoying it while I do.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, and there is suggestion to _physical_ romance (if you get what I mean) in this chapter, so you know about it now. Hah! And no, it isn't Donovan and Elenloth. Sorry, that comes later. Well, have fun...**

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Donovan and his men entered the city quickly, and once everyone was inside, the Gondorians shut the massive gate. There was no cheering for the Durvagorians, nor was there any crowd assembled, which surprised Donovan not one bit. The crowds were probably giving Faramir a warm welcome home. Now both the sons of the Steward are back home, and the Gondorian citizens were undoubtedly celebrating this fact.

Matt came up to Donovan's side after he had talked to some of the other officers of the unit that had gone out of the city. "What do you want us to do now, sir?"

"Have the men set up all of the equipment again. Once they are done doing that, I want you guys to get some rest. I don't know when you'll be able to sleep again. The orc army should attack later this afternoon, get the men ready at two o'clock. If I'm sleeping, get me up then as well."

Matt nodded, and saluted. Donovan saluted back, and watched as Matt started to give out the orders. The bulk of the men headed off to the section of the city that Denethor had lent the Durvagorian army. Donovan was very grateful for this, especially since the area was big enough not only for all of his men, but also for all of their equipment.

Donovan turned, and started to head for the Citadel. He needed to report to Denethor, and tell the Steward what was happening. He was lost in his thoughts as he traveled, not noticing the looks of shock he was given by the Gondorian people. He reached the Citadel, and entered only to hear heated conversation within.

"Are there no captains left in Gondor that will do his lord's will?" Denethor asked gravely.

Both Faramir and Boromir stood before their father. "Father," Boromir started, "I know you wish to reclaim Osgiliath, but we do not have the manpower needed, not if what Faramir says is true."

Denethor noticed Donovan standing in the shadows. "What say you, master half-vampire?"

"Don't do it," Donovan simply replied. _A week ago,_ he thought as he looked upon Denethor's calm face, _this man would have started shouting at me about how I was an imbecile and should be killed. My, how things have changed._

"And why not, Donovan Cerridwen? Why should Gondor's soldiers not try to claim what was once our capitol city?"

Donovan strode forward and removed his hood and goggles. There was no need for them before the battle. He stopped by the table and sorted through a bowl of fruit before grabbing a green apple. He was half-vampire, and half-human. He could eat, just as long as he didn't push it. Fruits were okay, and he hadn't really eaten anything in the longest time.

He moved over to a column and leaned against it casually before he answered. "Because, even if you sent the entire garrison of Minas Tirith to reclaim Osgiliath, they would fail."

Denethor paused for a few seconds before he spoke again. "Are you so sure of this? Or are you just underestimating Gondor's armies?"

Donovan calmly shined the apple on his shirt sleeve. "Let me tell you a story. In my world, there was a great and bloody war called the American Civil War. Now in this war, there were weapons that are exactly like the weapon that the orcs now have. And in this war, there was a battle that was named Gettysburg, so called because of the town it was fought at. It was a horrible battle that raged for three days, and fifty thousand men lost their lives in it. On the third day of battle, the Confederate Army made a mistake: they sent a full ten thousand infantry against a Federal position. Now, the Federals had limited men at the area that was being attacked, they had fewer men than the Confederates had. But the Confederates had to charge across a mile of open field to reach this Federal position.

"Simply put, the Confederates were massacred. The second they came out from the cover of the woods they were under fire from Federal artillery. And when they got within rifle range, they were torn to shreds. The ten thousand men were defeated even though they had the same technological might. Now Gondor has around eight thousand men stationed in this city, right?" Donovan asked, and Denethor nodded. "Well, your eight thousand men have to charge across _five_ miles of open ground. The orc artillery could hit them at a maximum of two miles, but they would probably fire at about the one mile mark. And whatever men you had left would be slaughtered by rifle fire. I doubt that even any of your men would reach bow range of Osgiliath.

"The orc artillery is more powerful than your trebuchets, just to let you know, and their rifle fire is more accurate, has farther range, and has a harder punch than any bow you have here at Minas Tirith. And I am estimating that the orcs have at least one hundred cannon, and that one out of every ten orcs has a rifle." He paused to let that sink in. "Twenty thousand rifles. No, you need your men to stay behind the safety of stone walls."

"One thing is bothering me, Donovan," Boromir started, looking confused. "You said that they have cannons and rifles, and Faramir can vouch for that fact. But how did orcs come by this technology?"

Donovan looked at the stout Gondorian deep in the eyes. "James has the One Ring."

Boromir paled instantly. "That means…" he started, horror in his voice.

"Yes, Sauron is dead, yippee. But now something infinitely more deadly has taken his place. If we do not crush his armies, James will have armies equipped with better and better weapons sweep across Middle Earth until all is under his foul dominion."

Faramir looked troubled. "Why didn't he give his armies weapons that are rival to that of your army's? I would have done so."

"James is exceedingly paranoid. No doubt he feels that if he gave his men better weapons than he needed to, than they would use those weapons against him and throw him down. Thank God, or else he would have made things that could raze this city to the ground in a matter of hours."

Denethor ate a piece of chicken, chewing thoughtfully on the white meat before he looked up to Donovan, steely determination in the man's eyes. "I will have my sons prepare their men. I have them both with me, neither shall be spent needlessly."

Donovan smirked as he bit into the apple, the sweet flesh grinding under his teeth. He swallowed, the apple juices still lingering in his mouth. "Good. I also wanted to tell you just how big the orc army is. Just telling you two hundred thousand cannot truly prepare you for the sheer size of the orc army. To put it simply, they will cover the breadth and width of the Pelennor."

Denethor's left eye gave a visible twitch. But other than that, he gave no other reaction besides placing his hands together so that the fingers formed a steeple . "I understand," he said relatively calmly while Donovan continued to eat the apple, all the while watching the Steward to see if he would start to panic, or have a nervous breakdown.

Once only the core remained, Donovan tossed the apple onto the tray that had the bones and other uneatable remains of Denethor's meal. The half-vampire cleared his throat as he wiped his hands together. "I assume that it is understood that none of your officers have say over my men, and vice-versa?"

Boromir answered this question. "You have assumed correct. Your…" he looked uncomfortable, for he knew what the Durvagorians used to be, "…men have taken no order except from their own men or you, and they know that this condition is a two way street. However, both sides listen to the suggestions that are voiced."

"Good. My lord, I cannot promise that your city will escape this battle without injury, but I can swear that only the first two levels will fall, if the orcs happen to breech the city's walls. Therefore I ask that you pull all civilians out of the first two levels and put them in the remaining five. If the second level falls, I ask that they retreat further into the top four levels. It will be a tight fit, but I do not want any collateral."

Denethor sighed. "I agree with your worries, Donovan, and will have the people moved. Some will resist, however."

"Tell them, if you will, that they stay at the risk of their own brutal deaths." Donovan frowned. "My forces will be spread thin enough, I don't want to have to worry about having to protect those foolish enough to stay. This may sound brutal, but it is the way that it has to be." Donovan stopped, and stood up, and bowed to the Steward. "If I may have my leave."

Denethor waved his hand in dismissal, and Donovan left the Citadel. The air outside was heavy and oppressive, the clouds darkening all to a dark brown. Donovan sighed, and headed towards his quarters. He wanted to be as well rested as he could for the upcoming trials.

Once he entered the small room, he slowly paced around the confines of his quarters, looking at small knick-knacks that he ad picked up during the journey. He stopped in front of a small doll, roughly made from wood, leather, and horse hair. Though rough, it was still pretty, and took the shape of a noblewoman. A small girl in Rohan gave him this as a gift for saving her village. As he gently stroked the hair that adorned the doll's head, he smiled softly. _At least not all people hate me._

He sighed wearily and took off most of his gear, keeping his boots, pants, and undershirt on so that when the call came, he would be ready in minutes. As he lay on the bed, he let his mind wander as he slowly let sleep claim him. Just before he fell asleep, he had one last thought: _I wonder where Elenloth is?_

Same time; east of Edoras; Elenloth's POV:

_I wonder what Donovan is doing?_ the elleth wondered as her horse rode along with the thousands of other horses that had gathered at Dunharrow. She was a Lorien elf, and had met the Rohirrim before, though they had not noticed her nor the group of elves she had been with. And it astounded her just how many of the men that there were. At least ten thousand men rode in the army that had been summoned.

She knew that they were passing over the Eastfold, and that tomorrow they would be crossing over the Mering Stream at Fenmarch and pass into Anórien. When she had been told that the Rohirrim could make the one hundred two leagues to Minas Tirith in just three days, she doubted it. But at the way the horses seemed to not tire even though they had rode at a good pace for several hours she began to question her doubts. Still, no matter how fast the Rohirrim wished to travel, they had been told by those in Minas Tirith that they would be called if they were in any serious danger. They had been told to take it easy, because the more rested they were when they reached Minas Tirith the more damage they could do.

_I hope that Legolas's doubts were well founded,_ Elenloth thought wistfully as a horn rang out ahead of them. She already recognized the tone: water was ahead, and they could rest the horses for a while before moving on again. She thought to the two thousand spears that had rode towards Lorien at the Mirkwood Prince's request. He had made a valid argument. He feared that Minas Tirith would not be the only place where Sauron's hammer would strike.

If Lorien and the other northlands were being attacked, then two thousand Rohirrim would not be received ungratefully. With such an unexpected assault, the forces from Dol Guldur, for that was the only place that the orcs could strike from into the northlands, those evil forces would be taken by surprise. With the help of the elves of Lorien and then Mirkwood, the Rohirrim could easily strike the orcs striking Erebor.

Than they could swing around and finally destroy Dol Guldur itself. After such being done, they could ask the elves for aid in the assault against Mordor itself. Maybe even the dwarves would help, if they wanted revenge badly enough.

If there was no attack on those lands, then the Rohirrim could ask for help at Minas Tirith and then Mordor. Elenloth wished she had been offered the chance to go, but she stayed with Theoden at his request. Already Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas had departed into the Paths of the Dead with thirty men who were of the Dunedain. Aragorn had received them warmly. Also among the Dunedain were two faces that Elenloth knew well: those of Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Elrond. And though the two pranksters usually had mirthful smiles upon their faces, they had been garbed in the somber clothes of war.

She sighed and looked towards the north. She hoped that all in her homeland went well.

Two hours later; North Lorien; Haldir's POV:

The March Warden of Lorien brought the bowstring to his cheek, and let loose, the arrow hissing through the air before it sunk into the neck of an orc that was charging with hundreds of its comrades. As he reached for another arrow Haldir looked to the side of his talan to those of the Galadhrim who were now fighting to desperately repel the attacks that the nadorhuanrim yrch dare send against them. Arrows were thick in the air and hundreds of yrch died in only a handful of minutes. But there were thousands more still remaining.

Haldir fired again, catching an yrch in the eye. _I never expected to see the mallorn of my homeland when I left to fight at Helm's Deep, yet here I am. And I would rather have a rac placed upon me then let them come within fifty feet of my forest._

Suddenly Haldir heard that which he never expected: the horns of the Rohirrim. The high and fiercely joyful notes rang through the air and at least two thousand of the Eorlingas rode over a hill on the far flank of the Dol Guldur army. The yrch were caught flatfooted, and were unable to set up a solid line of pikes before the Rohirrim slammed into the ranks, trampling line after line of yrch.

The yrch panicked, already demoralized by the thousands of deaths caused by the futile charges towards Lorien. Even while the army began to rout, the elven arrows did not cease, nor did the Rohirrim stop the onslaught. Within half-an-hour after the Rohirrim arrival, little remained of the yrch, and while elven and human units began the clean-up, the leader of the éoreds that had charged to the aid of Lorien rode to the border of the forest, yet did not enter. Instead, he simply sat on his horse and waited patiently.

Haldir smirked. _An intelligent human, who would have guessed?_ He quickly jumped from branch to branch until he was on the ground, and he strode forward to meet the human, who had removed his helmet. Haldir instantly recognized the man. It was Hama, from Helm's Deep. The man had fought bravely, and though Haldir may not like the man, he had a little respect for his battle prowess.

"Haldir of Lorien," the man called out upon seeing the elf. "I have come by order of Theoden. He has told me this message to say to you: 'You once honored an ancient allegiance for the future of my nation. Now it is my turn to offer the same respect.'" The man smiled. "I ride to Esgaroth with my men, and help destroy whatever siege may be taking place there. I humbly ask that you go help your northern kin. Once our battles are done, than mayhap we strike at Dol Guldur, the fortress which has caused much strife in this area for many years."

Haldir smiled smugly even as he relayed this information to the lady Galadriel. "You are well versed in our lands, human."

Hama frowned. "I may be human, but I am also a Rohirrim outrider. I have ridden far from my lands in my more youthful days, and learned much."

Haldir paused as Galadriel spoke to him. "My lady says that you have free reign in Esgaroth. The elves of Lorien will assist those elves under Thranduil, king of Mirkwood, but only after she and her husband Celeborn has destroyed even the foundations of Dol Guldur. The power of the elves will be evident, and I have my lady's word that Dol Guldur will have fallen in four days time. Then we will go to the lands of Thranduil and help his forces. We will meet at Esgaroth in ten days time."

Hama nodded in confirmation, and rode to his standard bearer before yelling out orders to his horsemen. Haldir smirked and shook his head as he turned towards his own elves who were looking at him expectedly. "We march to Mirkwood," Haldir said, and a cheer resulted. Now the elves would have final revenge against those forces darkening their forests.

Two o'clock; Minas Tirith; Donovan's point of view:

He was already up and throwing on his gear when one of his soldiers knocked on the door. "I'll be there in five mikes," he shouted, and the sound of feet moving away from the door was clearly heard. As Donovan tucked his katana into his belt he chuckled to himself. _Matt himself came to get me._ He had been able to tell because of the way Matt's heart beat. Each person had a different sounding heartbeat, no matter the circumstance. Matt was no different, and Donovan had spent enough time to memorize by reflex the sound of his heart.

Indeed as he promised he was at his men's staging area before five minutes had passed, though he had to do some roof jumping to keep on time. As he entered the courtyard of the section of the city he had been given, he paused to simply watch his men. Corporals were diligently moving among their squads making damned sure that their men had enough food for the next three days in their light assault packs, that both their canteens were filled with water, plus whatever Camelbak unit the soldiers were using. Donovan had watched troops faint from dehydration on the battlefield before, and he didn't want that to happen to his own men.

Also being handed out was the ammunition, and the corporals made sure that their men had the correct amount of ammo on their person, regardless of how many ammo caches were upon the wall. Also being done was last minute reassurances and planning among squad level. Donovan watched as a female Durvagorian RAD sniper passionately kissed one of the riflemen, much to the amusement of those soldiers around them. Normally Donovan would have put a stop to any such romance on the field, but he knew that his men needed all the comfort they needed.

Indeed, he even felt a few hearts located in different barracks in the throes of passion, and he was not surprised to see male and female Durvagorians coming out of a building looking flushed, hand in hand. He felt a pang of regret as he looked around and saw just how much he truly loved his soldiers. It was hard to get into the cold leader act. He knew that a lot of these people were going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it, short of leaving. But he knew his men couldn't leave now. They had too much honor.

Matt had walked up behind him. Donovan turned, and looked at him and the three captains and ten sergeants behind him. "What do you need Matt?" Donovan asked, eyes flicking over the men and women officers. _I wonder what color my eyes are right now,_ he idly wondered.

There was an uncomfortable pause and Matt looked flustered. "Well, sir, I wanted to…that is _we_ wanted to ask you a favor."

Donovan continued to stare passively at him. "What favor?" he asked.

"Sir, I was wondering if…if you could give the men a mass prayer, or blessing, anything that might help."

Donovan blinked in surprise as he looked over the officers. He was surprised by what he saw in their eyes. They were afraid. Afraid of the army that would soon march upon the city. It didn't matter who they were or what they had gone through, they were _scared_. And with good reason. They knew that the army was huge, and they knew that the orcs had rifles. The Durvagorians realized that they might not come out of this battle alive. They were the soldiers who were the direct counter to the orcs, they were the shields for the Gondorian people so that the Gondorians could continue to fight against the orcs even as the orcs were fighting the Durvagorians.

Donovan gave a shaky sigh as he felt tears form at the corners of his eyes. _Who ever said I was heartless? These men and women that I led to the light are completely willing to die for me and my beliefs, they will fight whoever I tell them to fight, no matter the odds. Because they trust me. I owe them so much more than I can give them._ He cleared his throat and wiped at the corners of his eyes. "Sorry, and don't expect me to say that I got something in my eye, 'cause I didn't. Okay, get the men out of the city so they can all kneel towards the east. And guys…" he started when they all began to head towards their men. They all looked at him quizzically. "…thanks," he finished.

They all knew the depth of what he was saying, and they smiled knowingly. "Only for you sir," Mary, one of the sergeants in charge of the fifty cals. If Donovan remembered correctly, she would be the sergeant in charge of the four M2s above the gate.

They started away again, and Donovan suddenly remembered something. "Oh, yeah. Tell the people in the barracks that they have five minutes to finish their…business."

Most of the officers looked at him questioningly, but then Andrew, the Captain in charge of the first four companies of grunt infantry, snickered. Realization dawned on the rest of the officers' faces at the snicker, and they headed off, shaking their heads.

And so five minutes later Donovan found himself the object of attention for one thousand soldiers. He cleared his throat, and the dull murmur died down instantly. "I was asked to bless you, and oh gods I wish that I could," he started. "But I can't as I am no priest, as is quite obvious." Snickers rolled through the crowd.

"But," he said, and paused. This reminded him too much of Gettysburg, when the Irish divisions were being blessed by the Catholic priest. "But I can try to ask for help to be placed upon you. Where I come from, there is a religion called Christianity, and while I am a pagan and unbeliever, I _do_ believe. I believe that the holy son of God, Jesus Christ, was crucified by the Romans to atone for all the sins of mankind.

"And while Jesus does not yet exist in this world, and you were not men and women for the majority of your lives, the Valar granted you a wonderful gift. They turned you into man, so that you might be able to do good for the race of man. So you are now under the protection of Jesus. Know that even if you do die during this battle, you are under his protection, so that no matter what horrors you have committed, you have also done great good, and your good deeds will save you." He stopped, and looked down at his feet, sighing before he looked back up.

"But even as you are protected by Jesus, this is not yet his world, so I will also call upon the power of the Valar and the creator Eru for your protection. I pray to them, _plead_ to them that you will be able to find peace after this war, be it in the eternal Halls of Mandos should you die, or in whatever home you find. You deserve more than just that peace, for you have suffered more than many humans that now live. You have come from the dark into the light, and defeated the temptation. You have suffered through one major battle already, and soon will be in a battle that is twenty times worse than Helm's Deep.

"Yet you face this battle with your heads held high. I so desperately want you to live so you can finally write your stories without any worries. So that you might find peace, and love. And not that kind of love, which is only temporary." Again a small murmur of laughter, and a handful of couples blushed. "No, I'm talking about the love of life, watching things grow in your garden, raising your children so they will know nobility and justice. And with the hope that you will find such happiness, I end this plea to the Valar, but that does not mean that I have stopped praying. May the Valar watch over you all. Dismissed."

All the soldiers stood as one, their faces set with determination and hope. And then it was faintly heard: soft thuds that could be mistaken for the beating of your own heart, yet wasn't. All eyes turned towards Osgiliath, where movement could faintly be seen. "To your positions," Donovan ordered calmly, yet with a wolfish grin on his face. There was an explosion as his men and women moved to do his bidding.

Donovan watched with fierce joy and pride as his men got ready in less than fifteen minutes, all except the men who had positions at higher parts of the city. As Donovan continued towards the spire, he pulled out his radio. "All personnel are allowed to do whatever they wish as long as they stay in their current positions." He passed the communications tent, the olive drab building already a bustle of movement as the operators took messages from the units they had been assigned to.

Most of the officers had handless radios looped around an ear so they didn't have to worry about keying a switch to talk. It made it a bit more hectic for the comm. officers, but it made it easier for the units that were fighting. The ten fifty caliber snipers and their spotters ran past him, the twenty men determined to get to their positions and get set up ASAP.

Donovan smiled in amusement that was laced with sorrow as he finally got to the top of the city. He looked out over the spire and saw Cerul perched at the end of the giant formation of stone, mounted on the end embrasure like some horrible figure head to a giant ship. He jogged up to her , and patted her massive shoulder. "Hey, how are you feeling?" he asked softly.

She turned her huge head towards him, her eye gleaming at him calmly. '_Better than I was. I will not be able to repeat the attack I launched last night. Simple fireballs and cones of fire, yes, but the hellfire? No.'_

"It's alright. Now it is my soldiers' turns to prove themselves. They will not fail me while they still draw breath."

'_And if they don't?'_ Cerul asked quietly.

"Then I will have failed as a commander. I will have failed my soldiers, and that is unacceptable. I need to go get one of my weapons, I'll be right back."

'_I will see you when you do.'_

Donovan ran back to his quarters and pulled a sheet off of his NTW. He had placed the sheet over it to protect it from dust and from curious eyes. His eyes quickly scanned the huge twenty millimeter cannon, searching for any dents or imperfections. There were none. He picked up the Antimaterial Rifle and slung it over his shoulder, careful to not bang his OSW.

He picked up the heavy ammo box he had by the door, and sighed as he exited the building. Ignoring the gawks he got from the Gondorian civilians, he headed up the road to the spire. He had wanted a twenty millimeter rifle that was magazine fed, but knew too little about the rifle's workings to make it so. Therefore: single-shot. But with thirty HEAT rounds, he bet that he could drop the 'Oliphuants' before they could start smooshing the Rohirrim. He gave a nasty chuckle as he thought of the sight of High-Explosive Anti-Tank meeting elephants at more than one thousand feet per second. It was going to get good.

He set the rifle down behind Cerul with the ammo box right next to it. He again walked up to her, and examined her for wounds. There were none. _'It appears that when a being you care for is hurt, you subconsciously heal them, just as you 'call' for help when wounded.'_

"For example, Elenloth feeling the pain I felt in Rohan."

'_Precisely. And she probably didn't feel anything this time. I did.'_

"I'm sorry," Donovan said, but felt Cerul's mental shrug.

'_It's not like I care.'_

Donovan sighed as he looked down upon his men. Even from a height of seven hundred feet he could easily see their actions. Some took the chance to eat, wolfing down whatever was in the MREs that they were issued. He watched as some wrote in journals, others read books that they had borrowed from wherever, and others napped. Officers were showing the junior officers where their fallback position was on maps of Minas Tirith, or going over last minute strategies. But the majority did what the Gondorians were doing: staring off at the approaching orc army through the afternoon gloom, the army whose drum beats were growing louder and louder.

Donovan pulled out his radio. "Matt, I want to tell you something," he said carefully.

There was a pause. "You love me?" Matt asked, and bursts of laughter were heard in the background. "Sir, I-I'm honored, but I don't think that-"

"I'm giving you command of the army."

Instant silence. After two solid minutes, Matt finally answered. "Are you sure?"

"Would I have said it if I didn't?" He took a deep breath. "Look, I'm going to be actively fighting, you are not. You will stay in the HQ and communications tent, correct? Therefore you will be able to lead better than I can. You are the active CO, do you read me?"

"Sir, yessir!"

"Now, I'll make requests and suggestions, but for the most part I'll be in active combat. So you need to take the helm. Can you do it?"

"Yes sir!" Now there was a steely tone in Matt's voice which hadn't been there before.

"Out," Donovan said, and turned the radio off. And now all that there was to do was wait. He knew that the mortars could shell targets up to two miles away, and because of the unnatural stillness of the air and their height, the fifty cal. snipers had just about the same range.

Slowly the Mordor army came into view, and Donovan looked over his shoulder at Denethor, who looked pale, but determined. The thudding of the drums grew louder and louder, oppressive in the otherwise silent air.

Slowly the orcs drew within firing range. Donovan gave a wolfish grin as the _shtonk_'s of the mortars firing was heard. He looked back at the snipers behind him. "Hey guys, think you can hit those drummers? They're giving me a headache…"

The snipers simply smiled and brought up their rifles to their shoulders. Soon they called for ranges, their ultraviolet lasers invisible in the gloom. Once the range was shouted out, then the snipers adjusted accordingly. "On the count of three, fellas," one of the snipers shouted. "One, two, and…_three_!"

With a booming crack that rolled off of the spire like peals of thunders, all the M82A2 Antimaterial Rifles fires at the same time. Donovan turned his eyes towards the orc army, which was just about to get a nasty surprise…

3:22pm; Pelennor Fields; Overall POV:

The orcs felt good. How couldn't they? They had weapons that the new master swore could win this battle for them, and ranks upon ranks held the weapons. And also they had 'cannons' and catapults. They didn't really care what they were called, just as long as they could aim and shoot them. Which they could.

And no doubt their greatest weapon was already at work: fear. The orcs chanted along with the tempo from the beat of the dozens of drummer trolls. They were secure in the knowledge that nothing the Gondorians had could touch them. They had told the master via Nazgul about the dark man with the weapons even better than theirs, but he wasn't unduly concerned. He told them that though he and the dragon were annoying, they could not stop this army. And there was no way that Durandir would equip rifles to bunches of Uruk-hai, no matter what he felt towards them. Or…at least that's how it was supposed to be.

Suddenly a troll drummer screeched in pain as something invisible literally blew a hole out of its chest. Then another troll fell, its jaw blown off. Another, a hole bigger than any orc fist blown through its left eye. Soon a total of ten of the thirty drummer trolls were dead. And then a peal of thunder that sounded like one of the 'cannons' rolled out from the city.

There were screams as an explosion blasted into one of the ranks. Nine other explosions followed even as another ten drummer trolls were unerringly killed. And then another ten explosions tore into the ranks. Then the last ten trolls were killed, followed by another peal of thunder. The explosions also stopped, leaving confused orcs trying to understand what had happened.

And then it happened. From the city, so faint it could barely be heard. But it was there. "Woooooooh!" Only one voice shouting, one Gondorian archer cheering at the sudden silencing of the troll drums. Three voices joined his, then a dozen joined them. "WOOOOOOOOOH!" The orcs stopped their war chants as a prickle of fear rippled over the army. And then the entire city was shouting its defiance, challenging the orcs to come and meet their deaths. "**WOOOOOOOO-!**" It was almost endless. For a full five minutes the city shouted and cheered, challenged and insulted, and finally the swelling roar of defiance silenced.

The orcs slowed the march, doubt and fear clouding their minds. Fear, their greatest weapon, was now reversed upon them. No longer did they fight a city that was full of despair and fear. Now they faced a city filled with anger…and determination to win.

But as the explosions started again, the orcs shook off their fear, and continued forward. They had two hundred thousand soldiers. The explosions barely took a dozen men per blast. And as the orcs moved to surround the city they lost their fear of the explosions. They were annoying, occasionally striking a siege tower or catapult or cannon, destroying the weapon, but they did so little damage the orcs learned to ignore these annoyances.

The orcs set their cannons up at the mile and-a-half point, and got them ready for firing. Over two hundred cannons were aimed towards the city. Then the forces that killed their trolls started to target the powder caches of the cannons, or the weapons themselves, and the explosions grew more accurate, silencing guns forever.

But the orcs get their chance, and over one hundred fifty guns fired at the same time. The smoke billowed out of the weapons, and explosions started to hit the city. Immediately the orcs started to reload…

3:47pm; Minas Tirith; Overall POV:

The orc weapons fired in one huge salvo, and the Durvagorians knew what powder weapons meant. Frantic shouts and orders to get down and take cover sounded just as the angry shrieks and whups of the orc artillery sounded. Holes were blown into the city wall, explosions slammed into the lower part of the outer wall. Even more explosions tore into the first level, destroying stone and wood, and some even made it to the second wall, blasting craters into the stout woodwork.

Screams from the wounded and dying were heard even as Durvagorian counter fire from the mortars and M82s answered the orc barrage. Gaps had been blown into the wall at several locations, and dozens of Gondorians had died, as well as a small number of Durvagorians. Other soldiers ran to clear out the wounded, Durvagorian medics whispering fierce assurances to those that they knew as well as those that they didn't. Many Gondorians became sick at what the artillery did to the bodies of the defenders, and some Durvagorians followed suit.

Screams for help and shouted orders were drowned out by another volley from the orcs. But they had far less guns thanks to the efforts of the Durvagorian direct and indirect artillery. Still, the shells caused damage, and claimed even more lives while the wounded from the first salvo weren't even cleared yet. Many soldiers wished for the time when they could also fight.

Only two more times did the orc guns fire, each time less devastating than the one before, but thirty-two Gondorians died and fifty-eight were wounded. The Durvagorians lost seven, and twelve were wounded. But now the orcs were falling back so that they were out of range of the Durvagorian artillery.

Slowly the smoke clears away, and the wounded are taken to med stations and the Houses of Healing while the dead are collected and catalogued. These tasks were halfway done when a cold shadow fell upon the hearts of the defenders. A pitiless and cruel shriek sounded, and all looked up to see four fell beasts dropping out of the sky towards the White City. Men began to despair again when the shrieks were answered by a deep, rich, roar that was so many times more noble than any sound that came from either Fell Beast of Nazgul throat.

All looked to see the blue dragon leaped off of the spire and stretch out he wings to go and meet the Fell Beasts coming into what was now her territory. And even as the dragon flew to meet the foul creatures, three beams of flame were seen to come from the dragon's rider, the half-vampire: Donovan Cerridwen.

Many of the Durvagorians watching held bated breaths and clenched their fists in tense suspense. The three beams visibly missed the Nazgul, though one or two might have barely grazed the fell mount. There was a gasp from those watching on both the orc side and from the city as the Fell Beast and Dragon slammed into each other in midair. They could be seen slashing at each other with wicked talons and biting at each other with strong jaw.

To the shock of all, Cerul suddenly folded her wings and began to fall. _Had she been hurt_? was the question on all minds. No, she hadn't, because her heavy tail whipped out and caught the Fell Beast in the shoulder, the heavily muscled and armored appendage crushing bone. The Fell Beast gave an agonized scream as it fell towards the city, and Cerul dove after it.

Once she was close enough, the dragon let fly a cone of her lighting hot fire, which caught the falling Nazgul and Fell Beast dead on. Once the blaze abated, there was nothing remaining of the fell captain and his mount. Suddenly Cerul flipped, and headed towards the other three Nazgul, who had planned to cause damage to the city while she was preoccupied, but they were taking fire from the M82s, the fifty caliber shells tearing into the Fell Beasts deeper than any arrow ever would.

The Nazgul turned their mounts to flee the oncoming dragon and the fire that they were taking from the city. As they fled, one of the Fell Beasts finally died from the shells it had received from the M82s. It crumpled in the air, and hurtled towards the ground.

The Fell Beast slammed into the earth just beyond the trench that had been dug. And even as the Nazgul was removing itself from its dead mount, it was fired upon by Donovan. The fire shells easily lanced through the dead Fell Beast, and the Nazgul screamed with ungodly pain as it was consumed by the flames.

And as Cerul returned to her previous perch, both sides stood down, the orcs staying out of the two mile limit, and the Durvagorians and Gondorians preparing for the next assault. And slowly, dusk fell.


	32. Battle for Gondor: First Night

**AN-YAY! Another chapter. This one is shorter than the previous two, but seeing as there are more thanthree thousandwords, I'm good.**

**Alright, it was pointed out to me in the WONDERFUL REVIEWS that I recieved that I had made mistakes with grammar and spelling. You'll have to forgive that, but after staring at a computer screen long enough, your brain starts to turn to mush. Especially if trying to write really long chapters... Anyway, thanks to Lyn and Arsenal, you two are helping me catch my mistakes.**

**And I will start putting times in front of the scene changes so you know exactly when things are happening in relation to other things. I will be using 'Army Time'. In other words, anything after noon is not one o'clock or two o'clock, but thirteen hundred or fourteen hundred (13:00, 14:00). And the POV starts to concentrate on the non-main characters of both sides. You have been warned.**

**Things are starting to get into motion, and thank you to all the reviewers. It helps to write knowing that at least some people are taking the time to comment on the story. Well, here is the next chapter:**

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Donovan looked up as the doors to the Citadel opened and Matt and the three Durvagorian captains entered the room. "Good, now we can start the planning with all captains and lieutenants available." He motioned for the four soldiers to join them at the table that had a map of Minas Tirith spread over it. Already surrounding the large wooden table were the Gondorian nobility and officers. Boromir and Faramir stood next to each other, garbed in finely crafted armor, beautiful swords girded at their sides.

They stood at the right of their father, who was at the head of the table. To Denethor's left stood Gandalf, and just beyond the White Wizard was Imrahil, the prince of Dol Amroth. Along the rest of the table were the different lieutenants and captains of the Gondorian army. And Donovan stood at the far end of the table, with enough room for his officers to stand beside him.

As they took their place, Imrahil started speaking again, voicing his concern. "My lord Denethor, we both know that the orcs will strike again once the night has completely fallen, and our defensive capabilities will be decreased in ability by this oppressive darkness!"

"I cannot help but agree with this idea, my lord," said the captain of the trebuchets. "My men can cause massive damage, but only if we can see what we are shooting at. The orcs will have the chance to make up for their lost time." There were murmurs of agreement at this, and Donovan glanced at Matt, who was staring pointedly at him. He gave a short nod.

Matt, smirked, and rapped his knuckles against the table, getting the attention of all the men. "And if I told you that I could illuminate the night, what would you say then?" the Durvagorian lieutenant asked.

There was silence. Boromir cleared his throat and all looked to him. He looked at Matt, with no foolishness in his serious grey eyes. "Then we would be able to strike the orcs in the one period of time when they thought themselves to be relatively safe. But Matthiol, can you do as you say? Can you give us light in the impenetrable night?"

Matt turned to look at Clancy, the Captain who was in charge of the two hundred non-infantry soldiers. Including the mortars. Clancy, in turn, looked to Donovan. "Sir, did you not make those mortar shells that you said gave of bright light?"

Donovan smiled wolfishly. "Oh, you mean the flares? Yeah, of course I made those. There are fifty of them in the storage area." Then he grew serious. "Denethor, I know that you know the tactics of the orcs, but I know the new Dark Lord better than you do. He knows the uses of stealth attacks, and was once part of an elite paramilitary unit that had the sole purpose of stealth attacks."

"And you are implying what by this?"

"Well, my lord, I believe that there will be two major attacks here," he pointed to the section of the wall to the extreme right of the Great Gate, "and here," his finger slid across the map to the extreme left. "After the forces have been attacking for a while then he will launch a sneak attack against the gate. Which of my companies is in charge of defending the gate area?"

Andrew spoke up. "Company three, sir."

Clancy nodded. "Plus the fifth mortar squad, and Mary and her four M2s."

Imrahil looked shocked. "Wait, some of your soldiers are _female_?"

Donovan just looked at him. "You didn't know about them?"

Matt cleared his throat with an uncomfortable look on his face. "Well, they have been trying to keep a low profile. They were aware of just how females were expected to be housewives in these lands, so they have been binding their chests to look flatter, and they don't talk while in the presence of a Gondorian. And that is also why they wear their hair short."

Donovan frowned angrily. "That displeases me. They shouldn't have to worry about what sex they are, no matter the land they are in." He glared at the Gondorians, daring them to object. "They are my soldiers, not any one else's. From now on they are not to hide what they are." He paused. "And how did they hide their height? I thought that the females were all around five foot ten. How could they look around six foot, six foot two?"

"Two inches of wood on the bottom of your boots can make a great difference, sir."

Donovan sighed, and began rubbing his temples. How had he not noticed? "Alright, yes we've got females in my army, and if you have a problem with that, than we can leave in the middle of the night, and bypass any orc problems we have. Trust me, we could do it."

The Gondorians looked ashamed and embarrassed. "Good. Now, for my plan. Denethor, I ask you to move your men away from the gate."

Denethor blinked twice in shock before he answered. "No."

"Hear me out. My men could take on the small task force that the orcs will probably send, and you'll want as many men on the other assault zones. Even with Durvagorian support-"

"Nossir, I've not given clearance for our men to fire, plus the mines will remain deactivated."

Donovan just stared at him. Didn't say anything, just stared. "Actually sir," Clancy started, "I agree with this plan. Our weaponry is an ace up our sleeve, and we want to surprise those fucking orcs in any way we can. And if we can hit them with all of our weaponry when they least expect it, when they begin to believe that, besides the mortars and M82s, the Gondorians don't have any modern weapons. They will underestimate us."

Denethor nodded, and Faramir rubbed his bearded cheeks before he replied. "I like that plan, it is a good plan, and our weapons at the present, though 'outdated' can still cause much death to the orc invaders. But I have one question. What is 'fucking'?"

Donovan snorted, and his officers turned red with embarrassment. "Uh, if you really want to know…" Donovan trailed off. He got up, and walked over to Faramir, everyone's eyes following his movements. Once he reached the young lord, he bent down, and began to whisper in his ear.

Faramir's eyes widened with shock, and then horror. "Sweet Eru! You cannot be serious!"

"I am utterly so."

"How can they let such an obscenity pass their lips? That is just…" Faramir paused, trying to find the right word, "disgusting and foul! How can they?"

Donovan shrugged as he made his way back to his place. "They are soldiers, and not lordly men. They have never had a lesson in etiquette. And I hardly use any better language. It is no big deal, so we should continue with our plans."

Denethor cleared his throat. "The longer we stay here, the more time we give the orcs. Donovan, you said that your men aren't allowed to shoot. How will they be able to kill the orcs?"

Matt answered. "It is not that we can't fire our weapons, we just can't do so and let the orcs know what we are doing." He looked to Donovan. "Do we have the ability to deal with our enemies silently?"

Donovan smirked. "Oh, hell yeah we do."

March 16th, 20:43, Overall POV:

Corporal David Âmul sighed as he put down his pencil. It had finally gotten too dark to see the journal in front of him, so David pulled out his angle-head flashlight, and made sure the red lens was over the light before he turned it on. He looked up carefully up to make sure that the red glare hadn't bothered any of his sleeping men. When none of them stirred, he gave a sigh of relief. He leaned back against his bedroll and sleeping bag that he had leaned against the wall of the gatehouse the led to the parapet over the gate.

As much as he wanted to join his men in slumber, he had volunteered to take first watch, and he needed to get his report done. Despite the fact that nothing had really happened he still had his responsibilities, and he needed to finish this request for more food. Plus one of his riflemen, John, had come down with a brief episode of dysentery. It didn't appear to be contagious, and he was feeling better, but David didn't want to take any chances. He doubted that it could happen, but he had requested that John get the chance to go to the Houses of Healing or the MASH that had been set up.

He leaned back over his book and started to write again, his tight letters sprawled across the page. As he wrote he heard the sound of someone approaching, and he looked up to see a dark shape move along the wall, pausing every so often to speak to someone. David turned off his light, and drew his Colt .45. He waited patiently as the person drew closer and closer. Once the man was within his position, David brought the pistol up, finger held on the safety. In less than a second he could turn off the safety and fire. "Smith," he called out, and the shape paused.

"Wesson," the person answered, and David relaxed his guard.

"Get below the wall, you can be seen by the orcs," David ordered as he too sank below the wall. He picked up his flashlight and turned it on, the beam resting on the man's chest. He brought it up to the man's face, and was shocked to see who it was. Arthur Gortag, his sergeant. "Sir!" he snapped out as he brought up his hand in a quick salute.

"Stand down David." Arthur leaned against the wall as David clicked off the flashlight.

"Sir, what are you doing here? I thought that your position was further down the wall, near our center."

"I was given orders by Andrew to have all corporals of Third Company report to the munitions depot." The sergeant turned to go, but paused. "Hey, good job, by the way."

"Sir?"

"None of the other nine corporals of this company bothered to challenge me. They just assumed that because I was on the wall I was an ally. The orcs could have had a traitor replace on of us, stolen one of our uniforms. Because those idiots didn't bother to challenge me, they could have been ordered into a trap. Ten enemies disguised as Durvagorians could do phenomenal damage to our command structure. But you were smart enough to be suspicious." After a short pause, the sergeant sighed. "You'd better get moving, or they'll be waiting for you."

"Yessir," David said as he walked up to Jack, his grenadier. He gently shook the man's shoulder. "Jack, get up, now."

Jack stirred, and a groggy voice answered. "Sir?" he yawned. "My watch already?"

"No, but command wants me at munitions. I'll be back in ten. Take watch for me until then, alright?"

"Yessir," Jack yawned again as he pulled himself out of his sleeping bag. He grabbed his rifle and grenade launcher, and made sure there was a magazine in the rifle, and a round in the M203. He crawled over to the wall, and propped himself against it.

David then moved out, always slightly crouched to make himself less of a target to any possible orc sharpshooters. He reached a tower, and quickly went down the stairwell to the first level of the city. He took off at a jog, passing small groups of Gondorian soldiers who were heading to replace other units on the walls. David paid them no heed.

He reached the Durvagorian quarter with no problems, and was stopped by the guards at the entrance. They were part of Eighth Company, if David wasn't mistaken, or possibly part of the reserve unit, even though there were only about fifty reserve infantry. "Davy," one of the machine gunners challenged.

"Crockett." David was let through, and he ran to the munitions area, where the nine other corporals of his company were waiting. Lieutenant Matthiol was there, as was Captain Andrew.

Matthiol spoke first. "Good, you're all here. Andrew, brief them."

"Yes sir. It is believed that the orcs are going to attempt a stealth operation to get the door open. Third Company has been given the honor of defending the gate. Since we want to keep the nature of our weapons secret we can't let any orc hear a shot being fired. So we are issuing you suppressors, which will silence the sound of your weapon firing to the point where no one more than twenty yards away will be able to hear the sound of your weapon firing."

"How many orcs can we expect?" asked Tim Shapat, corporal of C Squad.

"No more than fifty. We will have squads G, H, I, and J keep their positions on top of the wall. Squads A through F will deploy on the perimeter of the courtyard. Those squads on top of the wall have to keep a low profile until the orcs get down to the courtyard. Then you can secure the wall, and target the orcs in the courtyard, joined by the squads already on the ground. The squads on the wall will also have their men use laser sighting devices, at least their men with rifles. Your special equipment is inside; I'll show you how to place them on your weapons."

March 17th, 00:16; Donovan's POV:

As Donovan sat upon Cerul he watched as the orcs moved the two attack forces to the far flanks of the city, just as he had expected. When they got the first troops over the trench, Donovan turned on his radio. "Matt, the mortars can fire the flares." Less than a minute later, two _shtonk_'s were heard, and the flares lit, the magnesium phosphate burning bright, illuminating the areas that the orcs were attacking.

_Good, the gate area is still dark._ If it had been brightened than the orcs might not have attacked. Which _was_ good, yet his men wouldn't yet get the chance to fight, and they were getting kinda antsy. Trebuchets fired, the massive pieces of stone flying out to crush orcs beyond the trench, and the orcs within the trench's circumference were showered with hundreds of arrows. They fired a couple of volleys, the bullets tearing into the wall and the Gondorian lines.

The mortars started firing as well, joining the trebuchets in range. The fifty cal. snipers also joined in on the fun, their heavy cracks rolling off of the city, something the orcs were now used to. Donovan turned to see a small group of orcs heading towards the gate, moving slowly and probably quietly.

Orc Sortie; Pizbûr (sergeant) Tiimûrz's POV:

They moved quietly, but a bit too slow for Tiimûrz's liking. They all had their rifles slung over their backs, and long ropes with grappling hooks. They could hear the screams of their shaûk uruk getting killed by the Gondorians. Tiimûrz glared at the miniature suns that hung in the sky, suns that banished the night that protected the uruk army.

He shook his head, and continued onward, finally nearing the gate. He took his rope, and swung the heavy hook around quickly before heaving it up into the air. It sailed up, and caught, just as his other men's did the same. "Shardumûlarz!" he hissed. "Shardumûlarz!" He scaled the wall quickly and quietly, just as he ordered. He reached the top with five others, and they helped the other forty-five reach the top.

They looked around, and saw soldiers' equipment, but no men, besides the dead ones who were leaned against the merlons of the wall's crenellation and laying on the walls walkway, blood dried around them. It was better than they expected, but there was something wrong that the Pizbûr couldn't place. He pointed to twenty of his men. "Roklúg," he hissed, pointing towards the gatehouse that lead to the parapet over the gate. "Krampnar orskkulûk!"

One of them growled at him, but they consented. After the battle was won, they could loot and pillage to their hearts' content, but not while on a mission, and they knew it. They moved off as the rest of the unit hauled up the grappling hooks, and set them so they could climb the wall down to the gate. They didn't have time to use the gatehouses.

David Âmul's POV:

As the orcs moved off, David sat up from underneath a pile of 'gear'. Around him his men did the same, and the 'dead' men got up. His J Squad, had volunteered to stay outside the gatehouse and parapet, one of the most dangerous jobs. If the orcs had caught on, then it would have been too late to get their weapons ready to fight. They would have been torn to pieces. I Squad was inside the gatehouse on this flank of the gate, and the other two squads had a similar arrangement on the other flank.

He got his squad's attention, and made the hand motions to show that they were to use only melee weapons. They had less than two minutes to dispose of twenty orcs. They quickly stole after the orcs, careful not to make too much noise. As he neared the orcs inside the gatehouse, their stench became apparent, and David had to fight not to cough. _Ironic that I used to smell like this._

He slipped into the torch lit room, and saw the backs of five orcs just milling about, talking silently in their guttural tongue. The Mordor accent was hard to understand, but they were talking about how they wished they weren't ordered to hold this room against counter attacks.

He snuck up behind the rearmost orc as his men fanned out around him. Just as he was about to cover the orc's mouth and nose, he nodded to his men, and they rushed the other orcs, dividing into pairs for each orc.

Before his orc could shout a warning, David's hand snaked over its face and he buried his KaBar into the kidney of the orc. The orc jerked violently, and tried to shout as it died, but David's hand prevented too much noise from passing the orc's lips. As he lowered the body onto the floor, David looked up to see all the orcs either dead or dying.

Once they were done, David gathered his squad around. "Alright, we have to get outside quick if we want to get the other orcs before the flare is fired. Zach, you have the machinegun which couldn't get a suppressor, so stay in here and secure this area, alright?" The man nodded. "Good, let's g-"

The door leading to the parapet burst open, and an orc with a gash in is forehead ran into the room. It skidded to a halt in shock, and started to turn and run. Peter leapt forward and whipped his gunstock club around, burying the spike into the orc's stomach. The orc grunted in surprise as it doubled over, and gasped when Peter wrenched his weapon out of its stomach. Peter raised the weapon over his head and brought it down like an axe. The spike was embedded in the back of the orc's neck, and the orc collapsed, a lifeless hunk of flesh.

Two men of I Squad ran into the room, panting. They stopped when they saw the dead orcs. "Good, you got 'em."

David jerked his head towards the door. "We'll talk about this fuck-up when we have the time!" he growled quietly to the two men as he headed onto the parapet.

Tiimûrz's POV:

He had his uruk spread out around the courtyard as ten of them moved for the gate. Once they were halfway towards the gate, one of the suns lit up over them, completely illuminating the area, exposing all the orcs.

Tiimûrz sensed movement around him, and he looked around the courtyard in shock as scores of men surrounded the orc strike force. The men were pointing rifles at them, but these rifles were so different from the wooden and metal ones that the orcs held.

A little red dot suddenly appeared on the back of the uruk in front of Tiimûrz, and then another appeared on a different uruk. Then another dot, and another. Soon all the orcs had a red dot centered on their chest, even Tiimûrz himself. He didn't know how, but he knew that the red dots meant death. He looked towards the wall in desperate hope, hoping to see his men unlimbering their rifles to fire upon the men around the courtyard.

But his eyes widened with shock, and horror. Men stood upon the wall, men with no faces, for where there should have been a face was a shadow caused by the sun floating above them. And these men also held rifles like those used by the men surrounding the courtyard, only these rifles had little red lights upon them, like piercing red eyes, hungry for their blood.

A voice started speaking in Westron, a language the Tiimûrz and some of his uruk knew. "You have a choice!" the voice said, and Tiimurz tried to place who was talking, but couldn't find the source of the voice. He started repeating the message in the orcish so all his men knew what was happening. "The choice is simple. You can surrender. If you surrender then you will be given quarter, and held until the end of the battle, wherein you would be either judged by man, or freed by orc. Or you can do something stupid and die." Tiimurz finished repeating what the voice had said. Silence ruled for several minutes. Tiimurz was a warrior, one of the better ones in the Mordor army. He and his men all would rather die then be captured. Maybe they could take one or two of their enemies with them.

He roared in blind rage as he grabbed the stock of his rifle, and most of his uruk started the same motion. There wasn't even the sound of a weapon firing, just odd coughing noises and light snaps, but his uruk started to drop like skoi, their blood bursting into the air from chest wounds, and dust burst from their bodies at the force of the shots.

There wasn't any warning for him besides the sight of his soldiers dropping. But suddenly someone hit him in the chest with three rapid hammer blows, and he stumbled back, catching sight of his blood in the air like his uruks' was. He dropped to his knees in shock as he looked down and saw the three holes in his chest. He looked up to see the few uruk still standing get shot again, some in the head. Again someone hit him with three hammer blows in the chest, and as he fell back, three more blows caught him in the stomach.

He fell onto his back, coughing weakly. He heard someone shout out, "Clear up!" but he didn't understand what was being said, and wouldn't have even if the person had spoken in orcish. There was movement among his men, and he tried to focus his rapidly darkening eyes. Men were moving among his uruk, firing at those that were still alive, all shots to the head to make sure they were dead.

Suddenly his view was blocked by a pair of boots. He turned his head to look at the figure standing over him. He noticed the barrel centered on his head. "Frautziimarumishi," the man said sincerely. There was a sharp stinging sensation for Tiimurz, and then all was black. As he felt himself fade completely, Tiimurz knew what the man had said. 'Rest in peace.'


	33. Battle for Gondor: Second Day

**AN- Sorry this took a while, and that it isn't as long as some of my previous chapters. Anyway, there seems to be a misunderstanding in previous chapters. The underarmor that Donovan wears is not armor. It offers some heat protection, but other than that, zilch. What it is intended for is taking sweat away from the body, which keeps the body dry, and therefore slightly cooler. Plus now Donovan doesn't have to worry about getting a sweat wedgie in the middle of a battle where he can't fix it.**

**And I used the word 'reign' to describe the part of a horse's halter. I apologize, I meant 'rein'. Thank you reviewers for the support and constructive criticism that you have given me.Your reviewshave been a great help and inspiration to me. Thank you so very much, and here is the next chapter.**

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

March 17th, 04:32; Donovan's POV:

He glared at the trench that ringed the city in annoyance. "Now _that's_ annoying." The orcs had covered the area in shields so they could dig through the outer mound. This was ticking Donovan off. The mortars didn't do enough damage to route them, even when coupled with the Gondorian trebuchets. And right now the mortars weren't firing because Matt had ordered the crews to get some much needed sleep. The trebuchets were sending their heavy missiles out to crush the orcs, but the boulders weren't accurate enough to strike really close to the mound, because some of the boulders would fall short, detonating mines and breaking the pungee sticks.

The M82s were anti-material rifles, effectively big ass sniper rifles. They needed something to aim at, which was why they were so able to kill the trolls. Trolls were huge targets, especially with 12x scopes. But without being able to see the orcs actually doing the digging, they were turned into light cannons, which wasn't effective against just under two hundred thousand enemies.

Walls of arrows hissed out into the early morning air, but they were mostly caught upon the shields the orcs had set up. But there were still the claymores. _Orcs have not yet met the horrifying power of the almighty claymore anti-personnel mines. Well, I bet that they will soon learn by example, the poor bastards._

His radio crackled. "Firing claymores," Matt said, his voice strained with anticipation. _Am I a mystic or what? _Donovan asked himself smugly. He watched the trench's mound steadily, not wanting to miss what was about to happen.

It was amazing. Really, that was all that could be said. There was a simultaneous flash all along the mound, and huge clouds of smoke and dust were blown into the air, followed shortly by a huge thundering boom that jarred the half-vampire's back teeth, even though he was at the edge of the spire.

When the smoke and dust cleared, the devastation seen was astonishing. The first handful of ranks of orcs against the mound had simply disappeared, with no trace showing their previous existence. A few ranks beyond that the once had-been orcs were barely recognizable as things that were once the size of a man, large portions of their bodies ripped off in the blizzard of ball bearings. The next few ranks were horribly mangled.

After the echoes of the claymore explosions finally faded away there was complete silence. A handful of minutes passed before a Durvagorian on the lower wall laughed heartily. The beat to _We Will Rock You_ started somewhere among the men, and a few squads started to sing.

"Buddy you're a boy make a big noise,

Playing in the street be a big man some day,

You got mud on your face,

You big disgrace,

Kicking your can all over the place;"

Now all the Durvagorian infantry joined for the chorus:

"WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!

WE WILL WE WILL ROCK YOU!"

Again the original soldiers started to sing their part:

"Buddy you're a young man, hard man

Shouting in the street gonna take on the world some day

You got blood on your face,

You big disgrace,

Waving your banner all over the place."

"WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!

WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!"

"Buddy you're an old man, poor man,

Pleading with your eyes gonna make you some peace some day,

You got mud on your face,

You big disgrace,

Somebody better put you back in your place."

"WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!

WE WILL, WE WILL ROCK YOU!"

They continued the beat for a few more rounds, and then stopped. There was instant silence. The orcs were shell shocked. They just had several hundreds of their comrades get slaughtered. Then they had been openly mocked by the city they were besieging. But after a while, the orcs came forward again, and started to dig at the trench, furtively so, almost as if they expected another disastrous explosion. Yet when none came, they began to dig with much more fervor. It would only be a matter of time before they breached the ditch's walls…

March 17th, 07:34; Southern Mirkwood, orc soldier POV:

There was a roar from the pizbûr, and Sulmûrz leapt up and ran to his section. He and some couple thousand of his orc brethren were the next in line to assault the accursed Golden Woods. The last wave had gotten close to achieving their goals. He had a gut feeling that he would see the Wood burn to the ground. He growled in anticipation.

Suddenly something smacked him hard in the neck, and Sulmûrz stumbled back into the uruk standing behind him. "Ai!" the uruk roared, snapping out his indignation. Sulmûrz tried to say something biting in response. But to his shock he couldn't seem to get the words out. He then realized that he hadn't been smacked. No, a four foot long arrow was now stuck in his throat.

Sulmûrz dropped to the ground, gurgling in pain. The air became filled with screams as the arrows came from everywhere and struck down the uruks in the staging ground without mercy. Slowly the world darkened for Sulmûrz, and he wished that they had at least been prepared for the attack. This was no battle, it was a massacre. The elves of Lorien had come to Mirkwood, and they were thirsty for revenge…

March 17th, 08:04; Anórien, Elenloth's POV:

She looked at all the men around her in a daze. She was barely aware of her surroundings anymore, and she now always felt cold, despite the full arrival of spring. Everything was so detached, and she didn't know why. _That's a lie!_ a small part of her mind shouted. _You know _exactly_ why this is happening!_

"Elenloth!" someone shouted loudly right by her ear. She jumped in shock, and turned to look at the voice questioningly. An elf with blond hair. Who…? Oh, wait. It was Legolas. "Elen, we need to talk."

"Huh?"

He frowned in frustration. "Look at yourself! You barely even recognize me anymore! As each day passes you grow weaker and weaker. Why can't you admit it?" When she gave nothing but a blank stare, Legolas snapped. His usually cool demeanor was replaced with one of terrible rage. He leaned into her face, and roared, "WAKE UP!"

She jumped in shock as Legolas continued his tirade. "Do you think that I will let a fellow elf fade upon me? Do you think that I will let you die because of _your_ mistake? Valar above, why can't you accept the fact that you love the damned half-vampire!" His anger turned icy cold. "You love Durandir and yet you are too weak to admit it. Amin feuya ten' lle." he growled, switching to elvish in his anger as he told her how she disgusted him.

"You are too afraid to admit you love him just because of what he is! Get over this petty prejudice, Elen. I did a long time ago. I count myself lucky to have him as a friend."

Elenloth opened her mouth, and a small rasp came forth. She tried again, and this time succeeded in talking. "Amin delotha lle," she gasped, her eyes watering.

"You don't hate me," Legolas sneered. "You hate yourself. Because you have caused pain upon another person, you are now no better than the yrch we face. You nadorhuan! You cowardly dog! I despise you for what you have done. I have seen Durandir; I have seen the pain upon his face. You are not only killing yourself, you are killing _him_ as well. And when he dies, something terrible will take his place, and we will all perish. You saw it at Edoras; he was so close to reverting to vampire. Dolle naa lost, your head is empty if you dare believe that you will die alone. You will cause the perishing of Arda through your petty hate."

He turned away from her shaking form, and started to head away. "Lasta lalaithaimin, listen to my laughter as I mock your pain. Saddle up, we leave soon. We should reach Minas Tirith sometime tomorrow."

Elenloth gave an open sob as she watched the angered Mirkwood prince stalk away to find Arod. But she was relieved. Legolas helped her become at least a little more aware. It was true, she had been fading away. _Tomorrow, I may get to see Donovan, and I may finally get the chance to explain my follies._ She stood, and reached for her saddle shakily. They would ride again soon.

March 17th, 09:43; Minas Tirith, Corporal David's POV:

He swallowed, his mouth feeling like it had been stuffed with cotton. His radio had come to life seconds ago, only to tell him one thing: "The orcs have breached the wall at many locations."

Sergeant Gortag strode up and down the wall. "WE WILL HOLD THIS WALL, WE WILL NOT LET THEM PAST! THIRD COMPANY _WILL_ HOLD! HOO-AH?"

"**_HOO-AH_**!" third company answered, all one hundred of them.

"Alright, J Squad, lock-n-load! Zach, suppressive fire; Jack, you only fire the two-oh-three when I say so. Everyone else, take what you can hit. Don't use your grenades yet." There was the clatter and chacks of weapons getting primed, rounds getting loaded into the breeches of the different weapons. Suddenly the Gondorian Captains shouted and thousands upon thousands of arrows leapt from Gondorian longbows and started to rain down upon the orcs who had left the safety of the shields. All the Durvagorians ran to the front of the wall. David winced as he noticed how wide spread the Durvagorians were. There was only eight hundred infantry, even less due to the earlier cannon barrages of the orcs. They had to spread out all along the bottom wall of Minas Tirith, and the White City was certainly not small.

No one really knew who shouted it, but the order finally came: "**OPEN FIRE!**" David aimed his rifle at the orcs that were rapidly poured through the holes they had made like water from a breached dam. His rifle kicked against his shoulder as he pulled his trigger, and his shots joined the thousands of rounds being fired. He barely noticed Zach firing short bursts with his machine-gun, nor the eight other soldiers in his squad firing their rifles as he was.

His world was reduced to the sights of his rifle. And he no longer really tried to aim, for that was impossible. The orcs were dropping far too quickly for him to effectively draw a bead on any of them. So he did what he could do: he fired at the masses of orcs.

March 17th, 09:47; Pelennor Fields, Mordor POV:

"Largdhaar bauzghaash!" a pizdur roared, and the uruks around him did indeed try and get into a firing line even as the bullets tore into their ranks, bullets ripping holes into their flesh, punching through all armor. And even then, arrows were raining down upon them like a black rain. Dust, blood, smoke, all was in the air, almost suffocating. "Bauz!" the pizdur shouted just before a high velocity round punched through his head, splattering the uruks behind him with his brain matter, blood, and shards of skull. Still, his order was followed through, and the orcs fired their rifles at the defenders upon the walls.

March 17th, 09:52; Minas Tirith, Megan Dhurum (RAD sniper) POV:

"That was a pizdur!" she shouted out. "Two points!" She quickly cycled her rifle's bolt and brought the crucifix of her on the chest of another orc. She caressed the trigger, and the rifle jolted against her shoulder with a loud crack. There seemed to be a puff of dust on the orc's chest, and it collapsed, now nothing more than a piece of meat. "Fifty-two points!"

There was the crack of a sniper rifle to her left. "Sixty-three, hah!" Corporal George Sriz answered. Megan grit her teeth as she aimed upon another orc. Time to up the ante.

March 17th, 09:52; Minas Tirith, Corporal David's POV:

The orcs that he and his men were firing at raised their own rifles to their shoulders. "Take cover!" someone down the line shouted, and David dropped behind the buttress that jutted out in front of his just as the crackling pops of the orc volley was heard. There was a heavy thud, and David turned to see Richard, one of his riflemen, clutching his bleeding shoulder. "Fred," David snapped, catching the squad medic's attention. "Tend to Rick!" He jumped up and started firing at the orcs again. He had the feeling that this would last a lot longer.

March 17th, 12:14; South of the Lonely Mountain, General POV:

The screams and shouts of pitched battle was clearly heard as forces loyal to Sauron besieged the Lonely Mountain. King Brand of the humans and King Dain of the dwarves still fought on, desperate to oust the orcs and men of Rhun that had attacked their lands.

It was these noises that the Rohirrim heard as they thundered over the earth towards the battle. Catching the rearguard of the evil forces by surprise, they easily crushed the scattered formations as they swept towards the Lonely Mountain.

Unfortunately the other forces heard the shouts and battle cries and had time to harden their battle line to counter the cavalry charge. With a roar heard clearly at the Lonely Mountain, the Rohirrim crashed into the enemy formation. Unfortunately they did not penetrate far enough, and their charge came to a standstill, fierce fighting unfolding. But the men and dwarves that had been besieged saw this as a great opportunity to counterattack those who had dared to assault their kingdoms.

There was no doubt now that the men and dwarves would prevail, but the orcs and men of Rhun were still determined to do as much damage as possible. The fighting at the foot of the Lonely Mountain would last well into the evening.

March 17th, 14:25; Minas Tirith, Lieutenant Matthiol's POV:

He stood in the Command Tent, listening to the radio transmissions that were coming from the men that were now fighting. Slowly the same report was heard again and again. "They're falling back! We pushed back the orc assault."

Indeed, eventually the sound of gunfire diminished, and then halted entirely, the hollow _shtonk_'s from the mortars the only thing heard. Someone gave a weary cheer, and most of the city joined in. His men in the Command Tent all gave tired sighs. Some took the chance to get drinks from their canteens, and they all talked about how the day had gone.

Their chatter made Matt smile, for he could tell that they had high morale, and were glad that the Durvagorians finally had the chance to bring all of their considerable might to bear. But still…Matt was not stupid, and he was perceptive enough to notice the underlying current of despair. Battle reports were coming in, and they had suffered a few losses. And though the orcs had lost maybe one thousand five hundred of their troops, which was less than one percent of their total army. Not only that, but every time they attacked, the orcs had gained ground, in some way or another. _What will they get next time?_ Mat couldn't help but wonder.

He shook his head. This wasn't the time to worry overmuch about future happenings, he needed to be present for his men and women. "I want all the wounded taken off the walls, and have reserves replace them. Order the soldiers to get their ammo restocked as soon as they can. Get food to them, and have them rest. I don't know when the next attack will come, but I want our men as prepared for it as possible. I want results people!"

He got them.


	34. Battle for Gondor: Second Night

**AN-Disclaimer (haven't seen one of these in a while...) I don't own Lord of the Rings, nor any of its characters. I do own any OCs.**

**Wow, I'm really sorry for the amount of time it took me to actually write this chapter, and for its length. Still, considering I'm doing night/day sequences, and I'm sorry, but not much really happens at night, sometimes. Anyway, I promise that the next chapter will be much better. If not, I will surrender myself to any Nazgul that you send after me.**

**Read, enjoy, and review!**

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

March 18th, 01:14; Minas Tirith, Gondorian Guard's POV:

He strolled upon the wall next to his partner, skirting the sleeping Durvagorian units. The men with the strange weapons had all been exhausted, so they had slept while the Gondorian captains ordered their men to take the watch.

His partner nudged him in the side. "What do you think of those noises?" he asked in a low voice.

"I don't know. It's probably just the orcs preparing for tomorrow. If they attack, there are supposedly countermeasures out there that will alert us to their attack. Don't worry, we shouldn't have to worry. Come on, let's continue our patrol." The guard had no idea just how wrong he was.

March 18th, 02:34; Durvagorian Command Center (Minas Tirith), Lieutenant Matthiol's POV:

_Now he is making even me nervous_. With that thought, the Durvagorian officer cleared his throat. Donovan, who had been pacing back and forth while snapping his fingers, paused and looked at Matt with an eyebrow raised. "Sir? Are you alright?"

Donovan snorted. "Of course I'm not alright. There's something wrong. Something's going to happen, and I don't like it." He sighed and turned fully towards Matt. "Did all the men get reequipped with ammo and supplies?"

"Yes sir. We had some wounded and dead, but are ready to face another assault. We-"

The ground shuddered slightly under their feet. Without a word they both rushed out of the tent and to the wall looking out over the plains. Fire. That was what was happening in the city. Donovan and Matt could see the dozens of orc catapults firing, their flaming missiles arching over the walls to crash into the first level, starting hundreds of fires. Frantic shouts were heard, and bells began to ring.

Matt grabbed his radio. "Get flares up, _now!_" After an excruciating five minutes, the mortars fired, and light bloomed over the city. _Oh, sweet gods._ The entire orc army was charging for the walls, their siege towers right behind them. "All men, report to stations. Fire at your own discretion and stop those orcs!"

March 18th, 02:47; Minas Tirith, Corporal David Âmul's POV:

"Open fire, open fire!" he shouted desperately as the waves of orcs poured over the trench. Gondorian swordsmen rushed past him for the stairs to go try and quell the fires. Their archer counterparts were already firing volley after volley of arrows into the air. Zach was the first to accomplish the order, his SPW spewing out bursts of death, the brassy tinkling of shell casings joining the loud cacophony of the night.

Bursts of fire were easily heard further down the wall and soon more and more Durvagorians answered the call to arms. "Zach!" David shouted as he smacked the man on the shoulder. Zach turned towards him, eyes almost wild with battle-lust. "Adjust your fire higher, we need area damage, not precision!"

Zach didn't nod or respond in any way, but when he started firing again he adjusted his machine-gun so that his tracer fire hissed and snapped out into the main body of the orc army. "The rest of you guys do the same!"

Immediately the eight other men in his squad started to fire where they could see Zach's tracers hit. Still, it seemed to make no difference. "Damn, we're not killing enough!" Suddenly he noticed a small explosion among the orcs in the charging army. Then another, and another. "What the-?"

"The mines! They've reached the mines!" But David barely even heard the shout. The explosions were happening, so what. They helped, good. But he had a job to do, and he wasn't going to stop until he was dead or it was done. He did notice a long line of orcs raising their rifles to their shoulders, however.

"Volley! Take cover!" He ducked as the crackling roar of the orc rifle fire crashed over the walls, the bullets peppering the buttresses blasting off chips of stone. How long this cycle happened, David didn't know. It became simple repititions of war. He shot, reloaded, ducked when the orcs fired. It almost became monotonous. That is, until he heard the shout, "Siege towers!"

It's amazing how you simply don't _notice_ things in the heat of battle. He hadn't noticed the siege tower that had just reached the section of the wall that I Squad was placed. The tower's ramp crashed down, and there was a crackle of rifle fire from both I Squad and the orcs within the tower. Unfortunately there were more orcs. It was almost like a nightmare. David watched in shocked disbelief as I Squad was torn to shreds by the volley, men he had known all his short life being cut down by large bullet wounds that tore through their battle armor at that short range. It was the first time he had seen Durvagorians get killed from that far away, and it not only disturbed him, but angered him beyond reason.

As the orcs poured onto the wall, he swung his M16 around and started firing wildly, only satisfied when orcs fell from being center massed. He walked towards the tower as he fired, his shots getting more and more accurate. And then he heard the dry click of an empty rifle. And about fifteen orcs were giving him glares of death. And more orcs were showing up, coming out of the tower like maggots from a wound. A flicker of fear flared in his stomach.

The first orc drew a really nasty looking sword that looked frighteningly like a cleaver, and stepped forward, growling deep in his throat. Before David could draw his tomahawk and knife he was deafened by a roar right next to his ear as Peter fired his shotgun, catching Mr. Meat-cleaver in the face with buckshot. Mr. Meat-cleaver never stood back up, that's for certain. Soon the rest of the squad had formed up and started firing until they, too, were out of ammo.

And then they drew their knives, tomahawks, and Peter had the gunstock club out, with a really scary smile on his face. More and more orcs piled out of the siege tower until dozens were upon the wall. Dozens against ten. Bad, but not as bad as it could be.

One instant both sides were still and the next they were charging each other, bellowing battle cries. As the orcs met him and his men, David blocked a blow from an orc swordsman with his tomahawk, arresting the blade above their heads. His right had snapped out, and dragged the razor sharp edge of the blade across the neck of the orc, and its black blood spurted into the air as it collapsed.

Already David was taking the next orc, burying the blade of his tomahawk into the side of the creature before his knife jabbed into its throat, the blade then tearing viciously to the side. "Fire in the hole!" Jack, the grenadier called, and there was the hollow _shtonk_ of his M203 firing. The grenade was fired directly into the siege tower, and a brilliant white flash burst into the night upon detonation. It had been a 'willie pete' grenade, a white phosphorous, and it easily caught the wood of the siege tower aflame. The problem of oncoming orc reinforcements was solved, at least for this section.

He and his men quickly resolved the conflict upon the wall, casting the orc bodies off of the wall. David sighed as he leaned against the wall. He heard concentrated bursts of M2HB fire, and he looked up to see tracers slamming into the side of an oncoming siege tower. He did not envy the orcs who were inside that tower, for the fifty caliber shells easily tore through the wood sides of the tower. And there was nothing that the orcs could do to counter it, they were trapped inside the tower, unable to see…and move.

The Durvagorian corporal sighed as he found his rifle. Ordering his squad to gather their weapons, he prepared to start firing at the orcs upon the ground. He continued firing for three more hours before the orcs finally withdrew their forces, leaving handfuls of dead Gondorians and Durvagorians in the wake of their attack. And once again, the two forces were reduced to a stalemate, each side wearily watching the other, waiting for the next move…


	35. Battle for Gondor: Third Day

**AN- HAH! A chapter to make up for the last one! You are _so _going to hate me at the end! Suffer!**

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

March 18th, 09:34; Mordor army, Gothmog's POV:

He was not an orc to be nervous, nor was he one to be scared. But how could you _not _be scared when speaking with the Witchking of Angmar? "My Lord!" he began slowly, as though expecting his head to be torn off at any moment.

"What?" the Lord of Nazgul asked coldly, his voice raising chills in any who heard him.

"The soldiers, they are getting disheartened. The defenders may be getting tired as you say, but we have no cannons, no catapults, and we are beginning to run out of ammo for our rifles. And we are beginning to run out of food as well."

"Eat the dead."

"All our dead are within range of the devil weapons that the defenders have! No orc will find food and live. We _need_ to breach those gates!"

"And we will," the Witchking replied, calm as ice.

"How? Will it be done today?"

"Yessss," the Nazgul hissed chillingly. "Get your soldiers ready to charge. The time to take this city will be now!"

March 18th, 10:13; Minas Tirith Spire, Donovan's POV:

_What are they up to now?_ Donovan softly asked himself as he watched the entire Mordor army rearrange itself, as though it were getting ready to charge for the gates. "Cerul, what do you think?"

"I am as confused as you are, but I have a question. What is that thing about three miles down the road?"

Donovan panned his gaze down the road until he saw it. "Shit," he whispered softly to himself. He immediately brought binoculars to his eyes, hoping to God that what he saw wasn't what he thought it was.

But unfortunately, his eyes hadn't been mistaken. A 120mm Medium Artillery Piece, one that had been invented towards the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century. And the orcs were loading a HVODMCC into the breach. "Fuck!" he swore violently. The High Velocity Obstacle Defeating Missile, Cannon Compatible would blast open the gate like it didn't exist. "MATT!" he shouted into his radio. "Get all of our forces to the gate, NOW!" The half-vampire turned in his saddle to look over to where Denethor was standing. "My lord, the gate is going to be breached in only a few minutes; do you want my men to tell your soldiers to fall back?"

Denethor paused only for a second. "If you are not jesting, than do so immediately."

Donovan was already talking into his radio. "Have our men tell the Gondorian Captains to get the hell out of there!" And then Donovan could do nothing but wait, wait for what he had hoped would never happen.

March 18th, 10:24; Minas Tirith, Captain Andrew Paashum's POV:

"GET TO THE GATE! **NOW**!" he roared as load as he could. Immediately his soldiers were moving, gathering their weapons and ammo, leaving all else behind in their haste. "Gondorians, Denethor has ordered your withdrawal either to the gate, or to the second level! MOVE!" Everything burst into chaos as all the men began to move at once. Andrew collected as many Durvagorians under his direct control as possible, and ran for the gate. Once he arrived, he was relieved to see dozens of Durvagorian squads already there.

"OY! ANDREW!"

Andrew looked up to see Captain Grosh setting up a firing line. "What?" he shouted back.

"Second Battalion has this, get your battalion up that road to cover the retreat. Matt just ordered it!"

Andrew nodded, and turned towards the men following him. "Companies one through four, head back up the road to cover the retreat, and tell anyone else you see that if they are part of my battalion they are to stick with you, if not then they should come down here!" The men nodded, and moved out. Andrew took the moment to look around at the still burning first level, towers of smoke climbing into the air, pockets of flame still visible. And then he was off to collect his men. Things were about to go to hell, and he needed to be prepared for it.

March 18th, 10:30; Artillery Gun Emplacement (Mordor), Gothmog's POV:

"Are you ready?" he growled angrily.

"The laser is now set upon the door. The new master said that we now just have to fire, and we will be inside of their city."

"Then do so!"

Without another word being spoken, the gun was fired with a deafening roar, loud enough to reduce Gothmog's hearing to nothing but a painful ring for the next half-hour. But he watched as a small burst appeared just outside the Gondorian gate. There was dozens of explosions directly against the gate itself, and the Mordor army surged forward.

March 18th, 10:34; Minas Tirith courtyard, Captain Grosh's POV:

He looked up in surprise as the gate was breached. _No, to say it was breached would be an understatement. That gate just disintegrated._ "Sergeant!" he shouted to one of the men near the claymore detonators. "Get those detonators and fire on my signal!" Already the heavy bursts of the fifty calibers above the gate were heard, as well as the archers firing from that position. Movement could barely be seen through the smoke that resulted from the detonation. "Here they come! Fire at your own discretion!"

One or two riflemen fired, but the rest waited. Suddenly the orcs burst through the smoke as though they had sprung up through magic. The Gondorian archers and the Durvagorians fired at the same time, their first volley killing dozens of orcs, maybe hundreds.

March 18th, 10:41; Minas Tirith, Megan Dhurum's (RAD sniper) POV:

"-and remember, only take shots that are definite. No fratricide. Take out the high priority targets, as well," the radio crackled as Megan got into the prone position. "Trolls, wargs, and officers are paramount. Alright, guys. Have a field day!" Megan smiled dangerously. _Oh, I most certainly will._

March 18th, 10:47; Minas Tirith courtyard, Overall POV:

Chaos. That was the only way to describe what was happening. The orcs had gained a foothold, and slowly the defenders were being forced back. Already the gate claymores had been detonated, but it hadn't even annoyed the Mordor forces. Orc riflemen formed a firing line, and released a deadly volley, rounds punching through Gondorian and Durvagorian armor alike. Seconds later, the Durvagorians and Gondorian archers returned the favor, blasting away the firing line.

Vicious melee was taking place, Gondorian swordsmen trying their hardest to force back the orcs, but they were being overwhelmed. Every time a Durvagorian fell, never to rise again, one of his or her comrades would quickly use the four grenades that the dead person had upon them. The explosions added to the deafening sound of combat. And Gondorians were conscripted into using the firearms of those that had died, showed quickly how to fire and reload before they began to fight again.

Yet despite their frantic attempts to stay their ground, the defenders were being forced back. A Durvagorian stumbled, and before any could help him, the orcs were upon him. Somehow he had resisted long enough to stand back up with his helmet clutched in his hands. As the orcs pushed his comrades back, he took out as many as he could, beating them to the ground with his helmet before he was finally shot in the head with an orc rifle.

All over this was happening, orcs separating smaller units from the main body before overwhelming those that they had separated. And slowly the orcs began to take the first level of Minas Tirith.

March 18th, 11:26; Minas Tirith, above the gate, Sergeant Mary Bhoghad's POV:

"And make sure those M2s won't be used by the orcs!" Mary snapped testily. She and eleven other Durvagorians were at the top of the parapet, along with eighteen Gondorian archers, who were still firing their bows. Mary cursed softly. _If only we had more ammo!_

"So why didn't you fall back when you were ordered?" one of the archers asked as he stepped back from the wall.

"Why didn't you?" she asked slyly.

Suddenly there was pounding on the door leading to the parapet. The orcs had captured the tower next to the parapet. It was over. As the pounding continued, Mary gathered her soldiers around. "Guys, I'm sorry that it'll end like this, I should've told you to go when you had the chance."

"Ah, come of it ma'am. We would have refused to leave anyway," one of the corporals grinned.

Mary drew out her Colt .45 and smiled grimly. "Loyal until the end." She walked unafraid to the door, and waited. She didn't have to wait long. The door burst open and she fired her pistol rapidly, the seven slugs catching the orcs on the other side by surprise. But as she reloaded an orc with a rifle leapt out of the door and rammed the rifle's bayonet into her stomach, the blade sliding through her armor and into her gut. _I…cannot…fail!_ she thought wildly as she finally snapped the pistol's slide forward, readying it to fire.

She brought her pistol up, and there was a loud boom. She stumbled back, clutching the gaping hole that used to be her stomach cavity in shock, the orc had fired first. She still brought the pistol up, even though it began to weigh more and more, and fired, the one round catching the orc in the lower face. Mary dropped to her knees, and felt blood dribbling out of her mouth. No longer able to see anything except a great darkness, she kept her arm up and kept firing until her pistol was empty.

She was aware of shouting as she fell backwards, and someone calling her name. More gunfire pounded her ears, and as she died, Mary's last thoughts were, _I'm sorry…I failed you, my men._

March 18th, 11:42; Minas Tirith, Corporal David Âmul's POV:

He fired a three round burst down the road at the oncoming orcs, and watched as two of the oncoming trolls were taken out by sniper rounds. "Hey!" he shouted, getting the attention of one of the last men running past, a Gondorian with an M16. "Who else is down there!" he asked, pointing towards the orcs.

"None that are left alive sir!"

David growled as he lobbed an M67 down the road. _I've been separated from my squad, and I'm trying to guard the rear of an entire fleeing army. What the hell else can go wrong?_ As he turned to follow the army, he got his answer. _Was that a Gondorian child?_

Growling angrily, he headed down the side street where he had seen the little girl's face. _This is not a good idea! What am I doing?_ Suddenly a shrill scream pierced the air, and he started sprinting. He turned the corner to see a warg cornering the girl.

"Oh, like HELL YOU DO!" he shouted as he drew his .45 pistol. The warg looked towards him, only to receive a pistol round right in the face. Running forward, David put two more rounds into the beast's head. Just as he holstered his weapon, a pair of arms enveloped his legs. "What the-?"

He looked down to see a pair of big blue eyes staring up at him. He sighed, and rested his gloved hand on the dark brown hair of the little girl. "Do you know where your family is?" he asked. The girl nodded. "Can you take me to them?"

Without saying anything, the girl grasped his hands and pulled him further down the street until she stopped before the front of a house that was rather…non-descript. She let go of his hand, and walked up to the door, and knocked on it. "Mama? I'm back, and I have someone with me," she said, voice as soft and melodious as a flute.

The door opened, and a tired looking Gondorian woman came out, snatching up the girl into her arms. "Oh, thank the stars that you are safe. Don't _ever_ run away from me again!"

"Uh, ma'am?" I know that it's nice to-"

"You, is there any way back?" the woman snapped anxiously.

"No, ma'am. Right now just sitting tight and staying quiet might be the best thing to do. I've already met your girl obviously, but how many kids do you have in there?" He was answered by the pitter-patter of small feet, and before he knew it, four new children were wrapped around his legs. "Ah, I see. Well, we need to get inside before the orcs get this far, and get as far away from the street as possible." The woman nodded, and soon the street was deserted again.

March 18th, 14:31; Minas Tirith 2nd Level Gate, Captain Andrew Paashum's POV:

He winced as another volley of rifle fire was heard on the other side of the door. Luckily the wood was strong, and no shots came through. What was left of his entire Battalion was with him, as well as two of the M2HBs. Two more were at the third level gate, and the rest were on the third wall, and were currently firing down into the city at the orc hordes.

Andrew looked at all of his men and noticed many were grim-faced, and tired. "You guys ever heard of a knock-knock joke?" he asked, smiling slightly. When some of them nodded, he began to explain. Even though it won't be a proper knock-knock joke, it'll be pretty close. You all want to hear it?" he asked.

When most of the men nodded, Andrew smiled, and ordered the deployment of twelve claymores so that they were facing the gate. Then all of his machine gunners lined up behind them, with the riflemen equipped with shotguns behind _them_.

Andrew walked up to the door, and once the pounding on the gate abated slightly, he began the joke. "WHO _IS _IT?" he called out. No answer, and the pounding continued again. "**WHO IS IT**!" Andrew shouted as loudly as he could.

The pounding abruptly stopped. "Open up this gate, now!"

"WELL, IF YOU HAD SIMPLY _ASKED_…"

There was an even longer pause. _Please take the bait, please take it, please take it!_

"Would you…please…open the damned gate?"

"OKAY, YOU GOTTA STAND BACK NOW!" He turned towards the men holding the claymore detonators. "You have to trigger the mines just as soon as that gate opens." He pointed to ten men. "You, five men to each door. Open it as quickly as you can." The men nodded, and moved quickly. "On my mark. Three, two, one, _open_!"

The gate quickly swung open, revealing the orc firing line. Unfortunately for the orcs, the claymores detonated before they fired. The veritable blizzard of BBs tore through their lines, and then the Durvagorians began to fire as the gates closed. There was no returning fire from the orcs.

Andrew sighed, and only a few seconds later, the pounding began again. "Alright, I did that just to piss them off. That gate isn't going to hold much longer. How many men are here?"

"All of second company is here, and we are all able to fight."

"All of fourth is also present, but we can barely fight, we have too many wounded."

"First has two squads missing, presumed to be dead, and some wounded."

"Third has three squads missing, presumed dead, as well as one squad missing its officer with two confirmed dead."

"Who's the missing officer?"

"Corporal David Âmul, sir."

Andrew sighed. "Alright, here's the plan…"

March 18th, 14:51; Minas Tirith first level, Corporal David Âmul's POV:

"So, where are these kids' father?" David asked as he fought back a yawn. He had been in the house for almost five hours now. They had already eaten lunch, and now were just waiting.

"He's dead. He died two years ago at Osgiliath."

"Oh, hell lady. I'm sorry for asking. I shouldn't be prying into your business." He leaned back against the wall, careful not to jostle any of the kids who had decided that the best place to nap was all around him.

"It's not something you should be sorry for. You were curious." She smiled, looking at the kids. "Usually they never warm up to a stranger this quickly."

David grunted. "Lucky me."

March 18th, 15:01; Minas Tirith 2nd Level Gate, Captain Andrew Paashum's POV:

He looked at the one hundred sixty men who had decided to stay and fight. "There is no way that any of use are going to survive this. You know this, right?" All of second company, and three squads from both third and first company. They all stood before him, none of them with firearms. Some held Gondorian long swords but most held their knives, tomahawks, and gunstock clubs. A few even held their helmets or e-tools.

The rest of his men carried the firearms of his entire unit back up to the third level, where they could hopefully hold off the orcs for an even longer amount of time. The gate boomed and cracked as it was struck again. It would fall at any second. "For the glory of our names, and for the glory of our superiors!"

The men repeated him fiercely as the gate took another powerful hit. As the gate took its last hit and broke down Andrew gave a fierce war-cry and leapt forward, catching an orc in the head with his gunstock club. He ran forward, his men and women behind him as he made stunning headway against the orcs.

But to his anger and regret, they did not make it far before they slowed to a crawl. He watched in horror as his men were separated and then butchered by the orcs. But still they pressed onwards, for that Andrew was proud. Finally they were all cut down, Andrew himself taking down five orcs in his last moments. It was noted by the snipers that they made it halfway to the main gate before they were all killed, and they took at least twice their number out before they all fell.

March 18th, 15:32; Minas Tirith Spire, Donovan's POV:

He watched with rage as his men died. Again and again his men were made into martyrs. And he couldn't do anything about it. He was just about to have Cerul fly down upon the city when he heard the ringing of horns. Rohirric horns. He turned towards the west and saw literally a blanket of horses covering almost twice as much ground as the Rohirrim did in the movie.

Without worrying about the city anymore, Donovan leapt off his saddle and ran to his NTW-20, readying the massive weapon. Sliding a heavy magazine into the weapon, he racked the bolt back and then forward, slotting one of the heavy twenty millimeter shells into the breach. "Here, oliphuants, here boys," he whispered softly.

March 18th, 15:40; Rohirric Ranks, Elenloth's POV:

"**DEATH**!" the horsemen roared one last time, and slowly the started forward before they broke into a full gallop, charging the orc army that lay siege to Minas Tirith. She looked to the spire that overlook the city, and saw a small figure dismount the dragon that was perched there.

_Donovan Cerridwen, finally we will meet after such a long wait. _For the first time in days Elenloth was able to concentrate on the task that lay before her. She drew her father's long sword and charged with renewed vigor, ready to do anything to speak again with the half-vampire that waited in the city.

"Noro lim!" she urged, and her horse leapt forward to the head of the charge, almost outpacing Theoden himself. As they charged, Elenloth noticed that the orcs held rifles! They aimed their firearms, and before Elenloth could shout a warning, they fired.

The crackling roar washed over them, and Elenloth felt and heard several rounds go past her before connecting with the men behind her. And arrows also flew into the sky to meet the oncoming men, but it was not enough!

Elenloth swung her sword in a wide arc as she meet the orcs, and the blade slashed through her hated enemies as her horse slammed into their ranks. With a roar the rest of the Rohirrim hit, and barreled over the orcs as though they weren't there. The next five minutes were a blur of blood, steel, and flesh. Dimly she heard someone shout, "DRIVE THEM TO THE RIVER!"

She struck at the orcs as they ran past her, the cowards momentarily routed. That was when she heard the far off roar of an animal that she thought lived only in myths. She looked in awe at the gargantuan Mumakil that were now charging the Rohirrim. "Reform the line," she heard Theoden order, followed quickly by, "Sound the horn! Rohirrim, CHARGE!"

Without thought to their own safety, the men faithfully followed the order given to them, and sallied forth to meet their doom. But as the enemies' battle horn was heard and the two forces closed one quarter of the distance between them, the mumak on the far left flank simply collapsed, a burst of blood from its massive head marking its death.

Then the loud and rolling boom of a rifle was heard, only it sounded louder and heavier than any other rifle heard yet. Again and again the Mumakil were struck down, some needing to be hit twice before they died. By the time four of the beasts had been struck down the Rohirrim had simply stopped to watch their most dangerous enemies get struck down. When only five of the Mumakil remained the massive beasts turned and veered towards the river. Elenloth glanced towards the city. _None but Donovan would have been able to do that. Valar bless his steady aim._

The sudden roar of gunfire snapped her out of her trance, and the Rohirrim were reminded that there were still enemies upon the field. Elenloth spurred her horse forward, ready to end this battle, so she could be with the one she loved again.

March 18th, 16:03; Minas Tirith, Donovan's POV:

He jumped off of the NTW with a smug smirk on his face. He just saved countless lives. Who said he was only a bad person? His grin faded as he saw the huge bat-like shape of a fell beast fly directly towards Theoden's position. "Shit! Cerul, fly!" he cried as he leapt upon the saddle. Cerul leapt off of the Spire, and flew for the same location that the fell beast was headed towards. She didn't need to be told where to go.

_I'm too late!_ With a roar, the fell beast bearing the Witchking slammed into the king and scattered his guard. Still Cerul flew onwards, and Donovan noticed several people draw closer to the king. Eowyn, Merry, and…Elenloth?

Ignoring all distractions, Donovan unslung his OSW and aimed carefully before he fired. Two fire shells flew out and burnt through the fell beast, killing it. "JUST DROP ME OFF, THESE ORCS STILL HAVE RIFLES!" Donovan shouted to Cerul.

'_I'm not going to bother with landing, then! You'll have to jump off!_' was her answer.

In response, Donovan rolled out of the saddle when they were about fifty feet away from the fallen king. He dropped through the air like a missile, the wind whipping over his body before he hit the ground. Without delay he brought the OSW up to his shoulder, aiming at the smoldering fell beast. "Where are you?" he hissed. "Come on you stupid Nazgul, I know you are still in there."

Suddenly his rifle began to vibrate softly. "What the-?" he asked before he remembered Gandalf's staff. He immediately threw the rifle away from him just as it exploded, pelting him with steel fragments. It was then that the Witchking stood from his ruined mount, towering over the half-vampire. Donovan was barely aware of Eowyn rushing to the side of her uncle as he drew his katana.

_Think, he has strength and size, but I have speed and mobility. I can slow him down until Eowyn can fight and slay him._

Without warning the Witchking struck, swinging his blade and massive flail at Donovan's head and shoulders. Donovan waited until the last moment to move. He charged instead of dodged. _I have to hit him with everything I have. If I don't, I die._ He decided on one of the most powerful blows of the Hiten style. The Kuzu-Ryusen, the 'nine-headed dragon strike'. He leapt up into the air, and screamed as he struck. His sword seemed to divide into nine different blades as they all struck the Witchking simultaneously. The Witchking stumbled back, and Donovan refused to let him gain his footing again.

He struck while he was still in the air. The Ryutsuisen, the 'dragon-hammer strike', was unleashed, only as Donovan swung the sword in the downward arc, his channeled his kenki, his battle energy into the blade. There was a flash, and the dust and dirt exploded into the air a huge crater blasted into the earth.

Donovan landed lightly, a painfully cold numbness encasing his arms. He gasped at the unpleasant sensation, yet prepared to strike again. It was then that his sword disintegrated into a rusty mist, and the Witchking stood again. His clothes had been torn and damaged yet he still stood tall and strong in his fell might. Donovan heard the ringing of a sword being drawn as well as Eowyn's shout, and the frantic sound of a horse drawing near, Elenloth goading it to go faster in elvish.

But Donovan knew they would not make it in time. He stood tall and proud as the Witchking drew back his arm to strike. "I may die, but I die without fear and with honor." Neither the half-vampire nor the Witchking noticed Merry drawing behind the Lord of Nazgul.

"Fool!" the Witchking sneered as he thrust his arm forward to stab Donovan through his heart. Merry dug his blade into the back of the Witchking's knee, and the Nazgul stumbled in pain, his aim thrown of. Yet he did not miss.

Everything seemed to freeze as the Witchking's blade stabbed Donovan in the chest, the sword running up to its hilt. The Witchking shoved his hand, sending Donovan stumbling back to look at the blade embedded in his chest with shock. He dropped to his knees and made an odd gurgling noise as blood dribbled out of his mouth. Donovan Cerridwen, lord of vampires, had been struck with a Morgul blade.


	36. Battle for Gondor: End

**AN- I was tempted to let the cliffie hang until the weekend, but then got bored and wrote it anyway. So here is chapter 36, I really hope you enjoy it. Standard disclaimer applies.**

**Read, enjoy, review...**

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

_It's so cold, I can't breathe! _Donovan weakly lay his hands upon the Morgul blade that was now buried in his chest. Instead of the wound feeling like it was burning, it instead felt like someone was freezing his chest. He was only barely aware of Eowyn running forth to fight the Witchking.

Automatically he figured out just where he had been hurt, and how bad the wound was, even as his mind was slipping into shadow. _Blade is…two inches down and to the left of the heart, just barely missing the major arteries and veins…it has pierced my left lung. I need to get it out of my body._

Eowyn cried out in pain as the Witchking's flail caught the shield she had been using, shattering the wood and breaking her arm. Even though he noticed Elenloth running past him, it didn't make any sense to him. He watched dimly as Elenloth brought the Witchking to his knees with a well aimed blow, and then Eowyn stabbing him in the face with her sword.

As the Lord of Nazgul imploded, Donovan slowly pulled the sword out of his chest, his blood painting the black steel red. With a gasp, he pulled it completely out of himself before he collapsed, sword falling from senseless hands.

He felt someone grab onto his arms, though it was as though he was feeling it through someone else's body. Someone was shouting something…but he couldn't hear…all he wanted…to do was…to go…to…sleep….

March 18th, 16:33; Minas Tirith 3rd level gate, Lieutenant Matthiol's POV:

"We will not give in! We will oust them from this city with the Gondorians!" he roared, and what was left of the Durvagorian infantry roared back their approval, noise overwhelming the sound of the snipers, Antimaterial Riflemen, and the M2HBs, which were firing at the orcs storming through the second level. "Fix bayonets!" There was a flurry of movement from the entire Durvagorian unit as the riflemen fixed the knives onto the ends of their rifles.

Looking further up the third level, Matt could see how the Gondorian soldiers were getting ready for this last sortie. At least a thousand swordsmen and spearmen readied their weapons. Suddenly cheering was heard, and Denethor could be seen with his sons, all garbed in armor of the highest quality and riding magnificent horses. Behind them rode some two hundred Gondorian cavalry. _Okay, a whole hell of a lot of Rohan warriors have arrived. This just turned into a winnable battle. We can do this._

The gate shuddered on its hinges as it was struck again. "For our fallen brothers and sisters! WE WILL NOT FAIL!"

The door boomed again as it was forced open, and the two armies just stopped for a moment. Matt knew that at least the Durvagorians would have extremely angered expressions on their faces, and he liked the look of panic upon the faces of the orcs as they suddenly faced two armies that were angry and willing to fight to the bitter end. And then all hell broke loose.

The Durvagorians fired as the orcs did, and the bullets slammed into both sides, causing death and confusion. "CHARGE!" Matt bellowed as he ran forward, rifle in his hands, bayonet held before him. His men surged out behind him, and there was a roar as they met the orc line.

March 18th, 16:42; Pelennor Fields, King Eomer's POV:

It was with great joy that Eomer led another charge against the orc scum who had dared to kill Rohirrim. He struck again and again with his sword, the blade cleaving into the bodies of the orcs who were stupid enough to come near. Gúthwine clove through the armor of any orc that it was swung at, and many orcs had already fallen to the sword of the young king.

"King Eomer! Look, the Corsairs of Umbar have arrived!" one of his warriors shouted, and Eomer turned his eyes towards the Anduin River. Indeed the vessels of the infamous pirates were floating up the river, ready to give yet another wave of reinforcements to the Mordor army.

Eomer took a quick scan of the battlefield. The orc were forming a line of defenses that was backed by the river. The line of wooden stakes and rubble was not much of a concern to Eomer, but the hundred thousand orcs that were behind the barrier did. Plus the five Mumakil there, though the rifles that were being positioned along the barrier would have formed enough of a challenge as it was.

"Keep away from the river!" he shouted out. "Rout the orcs still unprotected!" He wheeled his horse around towards the city, where he could see his Rohirrim running down the orcs even as the orcs tried to fight back.

Suddenly the rapid chatter of gunfire was heard from the city, more so then what had been going on continuously. Bursts were heard, as well a battle cries. Eomer spurred his horse forward into a charge, running down the orcs who stood before him, and the men behind him slaughtered those orcs that hadn't been cut down by Eomer.

A small group of orcs somewhere of to Eomer's right had formed a small pocket of riflemen, and though they fired and killed several Rohirrim, they were unable to reload before they were pounded into the clay by other vengeful riders.

Eomer came upon the massive trench that encircled the city, and he rode over it, enough dead orcs on the other side for his horse to safely trot over. He rode the rest of the way to the city gates without meeting any orcs, and met up with two hundred Rohirrim who had already cleared out the area. Eomer pointed to their captain. "You! Take your éored and aid those within the city."

The man nodded, and Eomer concentrated once more onto the task at hand: the routing of the orc army. _Even if I die, I will still make sure that the orcs will regret ever having heard the sounds of my peoples' horns._

March 18th, 17:02; Anduin River, Aragorn's POV:

_I will make these orcs pay for burning the White City!_ With this thought Aragorn turned towards the men on the boat with him. His two adoptive brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, gripped their swords tightly as they looked out onto the battlefield. Halbarad Dúnadan stood close by Aragorn's side. After all, he was his standard bearer, and was the man who had led the Dúnedain Rangers in Aragorn's absence. Speaking of the Rangers, many of them were upon the boat with him, as well as Legolas and Gimli, who were standing on the bow, talking about something or other.

Aragorn looked out over the water at the four other ships that sailed near his own. They were piloted by the thousand Gondorian men who had been able to come from the southern fiefs to fight.

"We're landing!" came the call, and Aragorn gently laid his hand upon the hilt of Andúril. It was time to fight. The ship came to a halt, and Aragorn and his men disembarked. "For the free peoples!" Aragorn shouted, and they charged as the Gondorians leapt off their ships, and soon they joined in the melee. Aragorn felt a breeze, and he looked back at his ship to see the standard that had been made by Arwen unfurl. He turned back towards the fight, and joined his comrades, where they easily cut into the orc ranks.

And then he saw the Mumakil charging. "Dúnedain!" he shouted, and his men brought their powerful bows to bear as the Gondorians moved onwards. Being the best human archers of Arda, the rangers carefully aimed their shots, the arrows all flitting into the faces of the Mumakil, some even catching them in the eyes, killing the beast. As Aragorn started forward again, he noticed a glint of blond hair running wildly towards one of the last remaining Mumakil. "LEGOLAS!" he roared, though if it were in anger, or in fear, Aragorn knew not.

But Legolas turned back to give him a cocky smile. The woodland elf continue forwards to leap up onto the tusks of the beast. Aragorn watched with nothing less than amazement as Legolas made his way onto the creature's back after cutting away its war platform. He then felled the beast with a well placed bow shot, and as the Mumakil collapsed he slid off of it smoothly.

Aragorn then heard Gimli shouting something angrily, and he was then brought back into the battle. He yelled fiercely as he swung Andúril around in a mighty sweep, slaying an orc who had been trying to charge him.

March 18th, 17:03; Minas Tirith First Level, Corporal David Âmul's POV:

He listened as the gunfire slowly grew louder and louder. He turned towards the woman, who he had found out was named Adra, and whispered softly, "I'm going to go see if things are clear outside." When she nodded, he stood and stepped around the still sleeping children towards the door.

Gripping the handle, he softly turned it, and opened the door a crack. What he saw was not good.

Now, David was smart, and he knew that Durvagorians were not very subtle, nor did they take bad news well. So when he saw the two trolls in the side street, as well as about fifty orcs, he was not happy. Nor was he happy when he noticed that they had been clearing out houses for loot and/or survivors, and the one that he was in was next on the list. Well, he didn't react well.

He threw the door open wide, the wood slamming against the wall. "WHAT KINDA SHIT IS THIS!" he bellowed, causing all the enemies on the street to snap their attention to him. Suddenly remembering where he was, he primed and threw the last grenade he had on him at the middle of the enemy group, and ducked back inside the house, hearing a loud boom as the grenade detonated, and then the screams of the orcs.

Suddenly he got hit in the dead with something hard, his helmet absorbing the blow. He turned towards a pissed of Adra who was wielding a heavy pan. "Take the kids, and get as far into the house as possible, I'll try and hold them off!" As the woman nodded and turned away, he grabbed her shoulder. "And…sorry for everything," he mumbled, looking straight in her startled eyes.

She nodded again, and collected the now awake children before fleeing up the stairs. The little girl that he met first turned and looked at him with sad blue eyes, eyes that had one message: please stay alive. "I'll try, Hanariel. I'll try!" The little girl turned and disappeared upstairs.

_I will not fail them. I must defend them with even more than I have._ The pounding of approaching feet announced the orc approach, and he grimly brought his rifle to bear. The first orc burst through the door, and received two rounds to the chest. Unfortunately two orcs replaced him, and even as they were shot, more orcs poured in after them. When he ran out of ammo, David didn't even have time to reload; he only just barely managed to get his pistol up in time.

He only shot each orc once, and there were still too many of them. Before he could reload his pistol after it ran out of ammo, he was slammed back into the dining table behind him. Both he and the table flipped over with a loud crash, and several things fell around him. He blinked, trying to refocus when he noticed his e-tool lying on the floor next to him. _I took that off so I could sit more comfortably!_

Without another thought he picked the shovel up. He remembered offhand how Donovan had suggested sharpening one of the edges, so the shovel could also serve as an impromptu hand-axe. _Time to test that out!_

He rolled backwards and up so he was standing again, and lunged forward, swinging the shovel in a short, brutal arc. The edge caught one of the orcs in the side of the head, and it easily broke both skin and bone, dropping the orc in one blow. This gave David enough time to draw his knife and tomahawk. "All right, let's play!" he growled.

Screams of terror and pain outside paused the melee going on inside of the house. "Gah! The riders of Rohan are here!" The sound of hoof beats and the clash of steel was heard, and David took the opportunity to hit his enemies while they were preoccupied. He got two of the remaining five before they could fully strike back against him, but one of the three left standing managed to get a good cut at him, catching him in his unprotected arm.

Yelling with pain, David quickly killed the last of the orcs just as one of the Rohirrim walked into the room. "About bloody damn time!" David growled.

March 18th, 18:01; Pelennor Fields, Lieutenant Matthiol's POV:

He watched the dust cloud of the retreating enemy army head towards Osgiliath. The Rohirrim had chased them, and killed just about half of them before the horsemen came back. But still, fifty thousand orcs now had hold of Osgiliath again.

Matt sighed as he turned back towards the field hospital he had set up just outside the trench, away from the mines. Already two hundred Durvagorians had been officially KIA, and they had been laid out in neat respectable rows. Another area had Gondorian dead; and another, Rohirrim. The orcs were being piled up in piles of ten. Once ten such piles had been collected, they were set into an even larger pile, and burnt, another hundred dead orcs tallied.

Matt didn't want to look at the Durvagorian dead. Too many faces were of people he knew. Not one of the defenders had been showed mercy, be it male or female. Matt had been particularly sickened when he saw Sergeant Mary Bhoghad's body. No one deserved to die like that.

The lieutenant sighed as he looked towards the city where he knew his own commander was being held in the Houses of Healing. Not much could be done for him besides giving him a bed. Donovan's healing ability had closed the wound, but that's about all it did. Now all they could do was wait, and see if he would come back to the living, or pass into shadow.


	37. Hell From Heaven

**AN- Alright, here's the chapter most of you have been waiting for. Standard disclaimer applies.**

**Read, enjoy, review.**

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Pain tore through his chest, and it took all of Donovan's strength to not faint again. Slowly he started breathing exercises, and the pain receded like a fire slowly turning into embers. He did not open his eyes, not knowing if he was in a place controlled by his men.

And so he expanded his senses outwards, trying to find anything at all. The first thing he noticed was the smell. It stunk of death, and of burnt flesh. But then he noticed a smell that he had come to love, the smell of a mallorn tree that had been surrounded by the blossoms of a lemon tree. Elenloth.

She sat by his side, for it definitely was her. No one else had her heartbeat, nor did they have the intricate pattern of veins and arteries that were so noticeable by his kind. _Why…is she holding my hand?_

He gave a soft groan, pretending to wake up slowly. He heard the elleth gasp, and the sudden sound of chair legs scraping against the floor was heard, and then the soft fall of elven feet running away.

His eyes snapped open once she left the room, and he sighed. He sat up, noticing for the first time that he was in a bed with a blanket tucked around him. Giving a soft and amused chuckle, he stretched. Not only was he in bed, but he was also naked from the waist up.

He had a pair of light pants on, not the ones he had worn to the battle. He still had on his Under Armour briefs on, so at least he hadn't been completely stripped. He looked down at his chest, and noticed it: the nasty scar that now puckered ugly, surrounded by a lattice work of blue blood vessels. The wound that he had received from the Witchking.

The sound of approaching combat boots was heard, and Donovan looked up to see Matthiol standing in the doorway. "Sir! You're awake!"

"Of course I am. What day is it?"

Matt's exuberant grin faltered. "It's the twentieth of March. You've been down for two days now."

Donovan stood, and almost fell, catching the bedpost with his hand. He grunted at the pain that rippled through his body. "Report! How is the army?" he asked once he could speak again.

"Sir…I've got bad news."

Donovan's eyes widened as he was told what the battle had done to his men. "Matt, get them into formation as though it were before the battle, the dead men's places left open as though they were still there."

Matt nodded, and turned smartly on his heel before walking out again. Donovan sat down on the bed, devastated. _Three hundred fifty-seven casualties? My army is crippled, thirty-five percent of it is now dead, and they were irreplaceable._

_Good God, what have I done? Fifty-seven percent of first battalion dead? Twenty-seven percent of second battalion?_ As Donovan thought he quickly made himself some clothes, the same kind that he had made at Osgiliath. He quickly and mindlessly got dressed, instinctively reaching to his side for his katana. He stopped when he remembered what had happened to his sword. _Damn, now I'm going to have to make a new one!_

Donovan made himself a pair of boots, and laced them up quickly. He made his way out of the Houses of Healing, looking at all the wounded. There were so many of them. He slowly made his way down to the city's gate, lost in his thoughts, pausing only to note the battle damage. The second and first levels were absolutely riddled with bullet holes, and the smell of spilt blood was so thick that it almost made Donovan dizzy.

Finally he walked out of the gate and stopped, absolutely shocked. His ragged little army was all assembled, with so many gaps in its ranks that it wrenched at Donovan's heart. The snipers, mortar personnel, and anti-material rifle personnel didn't have any losses to speak of. The fifty caliber personnel had nineteen out of its sixty personnel dead.

But it was the Infantry who had suffered the most. First Battalion almost didn't exist anymore. Hell, the entirety of Second Company, all one hundred of them, was dead. Two sergeants were dead in the entire battalion, and…

Donovan froze when he noticed that the place where Captain Andrew normally stood was empty. So he was dead as well. And many of the junior officers, the corporals, were dead as well. Third company only had three of its original ten corporals left, David Âmul and two others. It had also lost sixty-five of its men.

Second Battalion had only lost one of its four sergeants, and ten of its forty corporals. All in all, one hundred eight of the original four hundred men of that battalion had died. None of these men could ever be replaced.

Matt walked up next to the half-vampire before he cleared his throat. "I have the statistics, sir. As you know, we lost three hundred fifty-seven of our men, some thirty-five percent. The Gondorians lost two thousand, three hundred fifty-two, about thirty percent of their men. However, their lord Denethor died when the orcs fired upon the cavalry that he had formed with his sons and the Gondorian knights. Faramir was wounded fairly severely, but he will live. Boromir was unwounded.

"The Rohirrim lost two thousand, eight hundred sixty-two of their men, including their King Theoden. This made up roughly twenty-nine percent of their forces. And finally: Mordor. One hundred forty seven thousand, two hundred sixteen orcs and trolls lie dead on this field after the orc army finally retreated. Seventy-four percent of their two hundred thousand man army. We have foraged three thousand, two hundred thirty-nine of their rifles, as well as almost a ton of powder and shot."

Donovan nodded absently while he looked towards Osgiliath. At least fifty thousand orcs were now situated there, no doubt digging in now. And there wasn't any question that James would upgrade the orcs' weapons, probably to a World War One level, maybe even a World War Two.

He needed to make weapons to give him a tactical advantage, and he had the perfect idea as to which weapons to make. But he just needed some help from the Gondorians. "Matt, you and the men are dismissed. You have free leave to do anything you want, as long as it does not anger the Gondorians." Matt nodded, and turned towards the soldiers still standing at attention. Donovan walked back into the city, heading for the Citadel.

He was so tired, though. Not so tired that he couldn't do what he needed to do, but he would certainly go to sleep early that evening. And so he slowly made his way up the seven levels of Minas Tirith, pausing every so often to catch his breath and to ease the throbbing in his side.

Finally he reached the Citadel and opened the doors, showing a wide assortment of people at council. "My lords, and lady," he added upon spotting Elenloth. "I have a favor to ask of you."

The entire gathering looked upon him with shocked silence. Apparently the good elleth had failed to mention that he was awake again. Aragorn nodded towards him. "Yes, Durandir? What do you request?"

"Ahh…Some one hundred Gondorians, preferably trebuchet personnel, placed temporary under Durvagorian command. The reason will be made clear tomorrow."

Aragorn nodded. "It shall be done. After all, it was your men who made the defense of this city possible."

The next to speak was Faramir. Evidently he was wounded enough that he couldn't fight, yet he could still partake in council. "I will also ask my rangers if any would volunteer to rejuvenate your ranks. Not permanently, of course, but at least until this war is over. I have no doubt that my men will leap at the chance to help your people."

Donovan bowed slightly. "I thank you for your kindness. I am still weary from my wounds, so I will now go rest. I will speak with you tomorrow about these matters and how to use them o our best advantage. Until then." Again he bowed, and turned to go to his quarters.

March 21st, 08:30; Pelennor Fields, Donovan Cerridwen's POV:

He stood upon the field, watching the soldiers prepare the weapons he had made not two hours ago. He had done it very slowly, due to the nature of the weapons, not to mention the ammo he needed to make for them.

Even so, just making the stupid things nearly killed him. Dark spots were swimming before his eyes, and he had to focus on staying awake. He had already shown the crews of the weapons how to reload, aim and fire them. The men, with two Durvagorians and six Gondorians at each weapon, were practicing the reloading process so that they could do it as fast as possible when they needed too.

Donovan closed his eyes wearily and heard the light chatter of rifle fire. He smiled, remembering what had happened that morning. Three hundred of the Ithilien Rangers had volunteered to supplement the Durvagorian infantry and fifty caliber ranks. Even now they were being led through a crash course learning spree on how to fire, reload, un-jam, and maintain their weapons.

Donovan knew that he would have to make them clothes, probably with an armband with the White Tree to show that they were Gondorian. Same thing for the trebuchet men who were now in front of him. One of the Durvagorians broke away from his men and walked towards Donovan. "Sir," he called out. "Are you sure these things will work they way you say they will?"

Donovan grinned savagely. "Oh, trust me. They will, I promise." The Durvagorian still looked a bit doubtful as he walked away. Donovan sighed as he redirected his thoughts towards the infantry. There were many promotions. David Âmul was now sergeant of Third Company. One of the other sergeants, Darien Narish, was promoted to Captain. Much of the same thing happened all over the infantry unit.

He was glad that David was still alive, though the newly made Sergeant had to lead a mostly Gondorian company. Only thirty-five of the one hundred soldiers were Durvagorian.

"Donovan!" a voice called, and the half-vampire turned towards the oncoming group of men. The fellowship, as well as a large number of Gondorian and Rohirrim captains. "You told us to come to this testing," Aragorn continued. He had been told of Donovan's name change, so it seemed. "We are here."

"Good. All gunners shift your weapons to aim towards Osgiliath."

Boromir blinked in confusion. "But…Osgiliath is five miles away," he argued.

Donovan just smiled at him. "Ready, sir!" one of the men yelled.

"Gun five, raise barrel to two-zero degrees y-axis."

Immediately the crew of the gun did as they were told. "Ready!"

"Load HE shell, and fire when ready." There was a flurry of movement as the men did as they were told. Within twenty seconds the gun was ready.

"Crew, prepare for firing!" the gunner shouted, and the men scurried to their previously designated positions, all covering their ears with their hands. The gun commander raised his hand, the gunner ready to yank the firing cord.

"Gunner, FIRE!" the man yelled, and without another moment passing, the gunner pulled on the firing cord. The weapon fired its first shell with a roar so loud that even though Donovan had his ears covered his ears began to ring. The weapons barrel and action slid back, and the weapon rocked back on its wheels.

A strange whistling roar was heard from the departing shell, and a huge explosion tore into the ground approximately three miles from the gun. "Holy shit!" the Durvagorian gunner shouted

"Reload!" the commander yelled, and the gunner quickly unlocked the action. Opening up the breech, the man grabbed the hot shell casing and pulled it out of the gun and threw it one the ground with a brassy clatter.

Two Gondorians ran up with a new shell, and they slid it into the breech before stepping back so the gunner could relock the action. "All guns, three-three degrees and two-seven minutes y-axis. Odd guns, HE; even guns, cluster bomblet. Fire when I give the command," Donovan ordered.

He then turned towards the men assembled. "I'm sure that you know of our current situation. We have won this battle, but now the orcs hold Osgiliath, and are probably being reinforced right now, as well as being re-equipped with better weapons. I am sorry to say that it is impossible to take that city, even with my Durvagorian infantry. And we cannot wait for Frodo to destroy the ring, for the ring has been taken by the vampire James. It will not be destroyed."

All the men assembled began muttering among themselves in shock and despair. There was futile anger on their voices as they muttered about the current impossible situation. Slowly the outburst quieted down. And then they waited for Donovan to speak again, for they knew he wouldn't have dragged them out here for nothing.

It was then that all the men assembled felt an unnamable energy upon the air, making their muscles tense slightly. "However," Donovan called out loud enough to be heard over the slight wind that had sprung up. "This was before we were prepared."

"Sir, ready to fire!" the captain of all the guns shouted.

"If you would cover your ears and direct your attention towards Osgiliath." Once he saw that everyone was ready, he turned towards the guns. "Fire."

It was amazing. With a roar all ten guns fired, the shock wave from the firing alone slamming Donovan in the chest like a shock-wave. Soon the far off explosions could be seen in the ancient capitol of Osgiliath. Large clouds were thrown up by the HE, and smaller bright flashes amongst the far off stone work seen from the cluster bomblet shells. Seconds later the rolling booms of the HE and the thundering cracks of the CB munitions were heard.

"The weapons you see before you are one hundred five millimeter field howitzers. They have a maximum range of six point eight miles, so they can hit most of Osgiliath from right here. The burst diameter of the HE shells is twenty-six feet, twice that for the CB shells. My men will learn to fire off three rounds a minute per gun.

"The guns will be firing for four hours with half hour intervals. In one four hour firing period, seven thousand two hundred shells can be fired. If half the guns fire CB and the other half fire HE, they can level two hundred nineteen acres of land in four hours.

"Unfortunately, Osgiliath covers some four thousand five hundred acres. It will take my men about two weeks of shelling to sanitize the city. Therefore you have two weeks to plan and regroup before we can march. It's time to get busy, gentlemen."

March 21st, 13:32; Minas Tirith, Donovan's POV:

"So you see, Gandalf. I can't just make it by magic; I have to actually forge the blade. And since you are a maiar spirit, and don't even try to deny that, I ask you to bless it once I get done. You know nearly every spell, and I'm pretty sure some of those include spells to give weapons magical properties."

"Where will you get the materials, and are you good enough to do what you want to?"

"I was a fairly accomplished smith in some of my former lives, and I know how to forge a new katana. And I can easily make the materials I need through magic."

"Alright, I will do as you have asked me," Gandalf said, sighing slightly.

Donovan smiled. "I thank you. I should return to the cannons and replenish their ammo supplies." Donovan turned and walked out of the smithy that he had called Gandalf to so that he could make his request. _I will make a sword that could even best Andúril_.

He quickly made his way to the artillery position, where the men were taking a half-hour break. Once he reached the guns, he stopped, and blinked. The first thing he noticed was the sign. "_We make the Grim Reaper's job easy for him."_ Completing the sign was a skull and crossbones motif underneath the little saying.

And then he looked to the guns, and noticed that each barrel had something written on them. Evidently his men decided to name their guns. "Hell From Heaven," "Divine Judgment," "Long Arm of Gondor," "Hell's Fury," "Little Missy," "Deadly Thunder," "Can't Touch This," "Tormentum," and "Messenger of Death" were now painted onto the cannons' barrels.

He sighed amusedly, and started towards the cannons, gathering the magic to make the several thousand shells that would soon be fired…


	38. Finally Together

**AN- Okay, I have something important to say about this chapter. THIS IS THE CHAPTER WHERE MY STORY EARNS ITS 'M ROMANCE' RATING! If you do not like reading graphic love scenes, then DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER! If you _do _read it and review, please tell me your opinion. I can easily make it less graphic. With that being said, on with the chapter...**

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

March 21st, 22:08; Donovan's Quarters, Donovan's POV:

Donovan pulled hisjacket off painfully as he sat down on the bed, and pulled the hem of his shirt up so his lower chest was revealed. He softly fingered the puckered flesh of the wound the Witchking gave him. He accidentally stroked too hard, and his vision turned blindingly black as he remembered what had happened. The Witchking screaming in that hideous drawn out sound, and Donovan performed the Ryutsuisen, the attack hitting the King of Nazgul, making it stumble. But even as the ancient katana tore through clothes and invisible flesh, its blade was destroyed by the old power of the Witchking. And as Donovan held nothing but the hilt, the Witchking stepped forward, and stabbed Donovan straight through the bottom of his left lung, running him up to the hilt. The only reason that Donovan even survived that attack was because Merry had stabbed the Nazgul in the back of the knee, causing the Witchking's attack to go off from its original target. Donovan remembered little after that, only the stepping forward of Eowyn, and she probably finished off the Nazgul.

He winced as he remembered the pain. It was not white-hot, but icy cold, trying to extinguish his soul with evil. And the blood, oh gods, the blood. It seemed to come out in gallons, and didn't ever seem to stop.

And the wound was fatal. It may take ten or fifty years, but eventually the wound would kill him. The dark magic of it couldn't be ignored, nor removed at this point. And his healing power only slowed down the damage, let him live longer. He stopped touching the flesh, but started coughing, hard. Before he knew it, he was off the bed, crouching on all fours upon the floor. He coughed even harder, the sound deep and harsh, the movement painful. He willed himself to stop, and slowly the fit subsided. He looked dizzily at the floor in front of him. There was blood, and the coppery tang of it filled his mouth. He got up, and found a rag. He first wiped around his mouth, and wasn't surprised to see blood there too. He then wiped off the floor.

He could only hope that the coughing would gradually subside, for he would hate to have to fight a battle and have an attack. Plus, no one else knew about it. And he would prefer to keep it that way. He didn't want to be viewed as weak.

There was a soft knocking at his door. He tucked in his shirt, and strode over to the door, pulling it open forcefully, almost angrily. There stood Elenloth, fully clothed in her Galadhrim uniform, the hood of her cloak pulled over her face to hide that she was a female. Even in Minas Tirith just after a siege, there were still groups of men who prowled the streets after dark, looking for some feminine 'company'.

"What do you want?" he asked dismally as he viewed the dark streets behind her, as if to see if she had been followed. He still loved her, though she didn't seem to love him, no matter what he did for her. And it wasn't too long ago that she had told him that she never wanted to see him again. She eyed him a little angrily answering.

"Some talk, between two comrades. Everyone else is in council, but the talks grew boring. You flat out refused to go at all, so I figured at least I had someone I knew to talk to, right?" she asked. Donovan felt a coil of desire settle within him. Her voice could be so damn alluring, even when she wasn't trying to be as such.

Donovan stepped back from the door, opening it wide. She came in and looked around the small room, fingering small objects he had picked up on the journey as she paced around the small quarters. "If you could so enjoy the presence of a 'warmonger creature of darkness' as you seem to think I am," Donovan said quietly, anger barely hidden as he closed the door softly.

She turned angrily towards him, her lower lip jutting out in what almost could be called a pout. "Well, when you kill an animal to feed, and don't even use its meat, we elves frown on that."

Donovan took a step towards her, laughing hauntingly. His eyeteeth flashed in the candlelight. "Oh really? I found it interesting that you think so. What do you think my favorite food is?"

"Human blood, you beast!" she took a step back. "Why are you speaking to me like this?"

"Human blood? No, it's too…domiciled, too weak. I prefer deer, for they travel in herds, meaning I can drink my fill, yet not even weaken any of them. And their blood is so invigorating, it's almost to the point of ecstasy!" All the while he was walking towards her, forcing her towards the wall. "And I thought you came to me, and this is a matter we need to speak upon. While you may think me a murderer, I can choose to feed without killing anything be it plant or animal, solely unique among all the races. I prefer hunting this way, finding some deer, calming them," his voice dropped to a low murmur as Elenloth bumped into the wall behind her. "Then, when they are relaxed, I put a small cut in their hide, letting the blood flow."

His face was now inches away from hers, and he listened as her heart started to beat quicker and quicker. And not out of fear. At least, that's what her eyes showed. They showed only desire. "Then I gently place my mouth over the wound," he breathed, "and let the blood into my mouth, drinking. When I feel that they are beginning to weaken, I let the deer free, and let their cut heal." He brought his lips so they were barely a fraction of an inch away from Elen's, and her eyes drooped close in anticipation. But before he could make contact, her eyes snapped open, and they showed anger. He pulled back in shock.

"How dare you!" she shouted. "Putting some vampire spell on me so I would be seduced? Damn you!"

She turned to leave, but Donovan barred her path by slamming a hand against the wall in front of her. She looked at him, the beginnings of panic in her eyes. She turned to go the other way, but his arm was already blocking her. "A spell?" he asked coldly, a silent rage flickering in his bright golden eyes. "Lady, the only spell I use on you is love, and you have cast it on me a hundred times over!" he next to roared.

"But my love for you was a spell, a spell by Saruman the Deceiver!" she cried in despair, tears gathering at the corners her eyes. "After he died, it left, but then it came back, and I can't make it go away!"

Donovan's face took on a sudden gentle look, and he leaned in close to her face. "Then maybe it isn't a spell," he smiled, just before he claimed her lips softly, almost as light as a breath of air. But both felt the electricity of pleasure that stemmed from that light kiss. He drew away, and then kissed again, just a little harder, and at first she stiffened against him. He was afraid she would push him away, but he felt her relax as she melted into him. He brought his hands off of the wall, and wrapped Elenloth in a tight embrace. He pressed his tongue against her lips, and her mouth opened, letting his tongue enter her mouth, and their tongues danced fiercely with each other. Oh gods, how he had missed her taste, her scent, and her feel! She moaned into his mouth, and blinked in surprise as he pulled away, her face following close to his hungrily as she tried to restart the kiss. "Do _you_ think it is a spell?" he asked huskily as he laid his forehead against hers.

She shook her head no, normally grey eyes darkened with desire. Her warmth seeped into him, and he shuddered in desire as his pants tightened around a steadily growing crotch. He brought his lips against hers again, and their tongues sparred for a second time, dancing wetly against each other. His hands rubbed small circles on her lower back, heading slowly lower towards her rear. Just before his hands reached those firm cheeks, he let her 'win' the spar between their mouths, and coaxed her tongue into his mouth. He clamped his lips down on her tongue, and sucked against it just as he grasped her rear firmly yet gently.

She gave a sharp moan of desire as she rocked forward, bringing her core to rub against his. He gasped in surprised pleasure, releasing her from his mouth, but instantly started to kiss her jaw, and he made his way towards her neck. Once he reached the end of her jaw he paused, wondering if he should go up, or down. He smiled predatorily. Definitely the ear. He brought her body closer to his as he felt her pull the undershirt out of the hem of his pants so her hands could roam across his skin.

Her hands climbed towards his shoulder blades as his lips gently kissed along the sensitive outer shell of her ear, and she pulled herself even closer to him, her fingernails digging slightly into his skin and drawing blood as she gave a whimper of pleasure. As Donovan felt the blood well in the scratches, his body shivered with pleasure. "Turn around," he whispered huskily, and she did so without question.

He pulled her flush against his body as his hands quickly played with the clasp of her cloak, and the material slithered down between the two before landing fully on the floor. He lightly kissed the shell of her ear before he pulled the leather breastplate off of her body. Now only her pants and tunic remained. He pulled the tunic out of her pants, and slid his hands under the shirt hem, and rubbed Elenloth's smooth stomach, delight filling his mind as he felt her abdomen quiver with excitement.

He slowly rubbed his hands upwards until he caressed the bottom of her breasts. Without missing a beat, he softly started sucking on the tip of her ear as his hands went upwards to cup her chest, and his hands gently rubbed over the perfectly smooth and firm skin until they found her nipples. Elenloth cried out sharply in pleasure then, nearly collapsing against him before spinning around and claiming Donovan's lips fiercely, taking the initiative as she deepened the kiss roughly.

He groaned against her invading tongue as his hands left her shirt to clutch her tightly to him. One hand undid her braids so that her auburn hair tumbled down to her midback, covering his other hand, which was deftly undoing the laces of her shirt. Her hands found their way back into his clothes, this time his pants, and she softly squeezed him. Donovan gasped, and she took any semblance of control away from him as she slowly let her nimble hands explore him fully, and he almost fainted as wave after wave of pleasure slammed into him.

He brought his lips against her neck and placed a kiss directly over her pulsing jugular vein. His mind slipped a little and his tongue brushed wetly against her neck. He softly nipped her skin, delighted as he not only heard but felt her moan, the sound thrumming through her neck.

Then her hands started towards his stomach, as though Elen were intent on exploring every inch of his body with her hands. She grasped the hem of his shirt as he finished unlacing her shirt, and her shirt fell, supported only by her arms, which were lifting his shirt up. He quickly took over, and in seconds his shirt was on the floor. He felt a wave of sadness as Elen flinched when she saw his scars, all reminders that he had had a life very different from her own. But then her shirt dropped, and he gasped, not with shock but with pleasure.

In his eyes, she was absolutely perfect. Soft pale skin, rose red nipples, and the scars of a warrior. She had nowhere close to the number that he had, but she had a fair amount of scars, showing her life as one of the Galadhrim. She was looking down in shame, but he lay a hand on her shoulder, and tilted her chin up with his other. He bent down, and kissed her, gently, showing her that he did understand, that he was not ashamed of her scars, rather he loved them, for they made her Elenloth, completely unique. He bought his hand down, and traced a scar that ran near one of her breasts. Once he was done, he gently rubbed his knuckles over her nipple, and was delighted not only to feel her moan in his mouth, and see the excitement on her face, but also feel the nipple harden.

He pulled her close again so that their bare skin met and her immortal heat soaked into his body, warming him. He left her mouth again, choosing to kiss her left jaw line before he headed lower, softly suckling her neck. He left a soft love mark there before he headed lower, lingering on the collarbone before he gently started walking backwards until he sat on the bed, pulling her on top of his lap so she straddled him. Perfect, now he wouldn't have any problem reaching his target. Elenloth's moans turned into cries of pleasure as he explored her chest with his mouth, suckling, nibbling, and licking every inch of her beautiful breasts, concentrating especially on her sensitive nipples. Her hands gripped the back of his head as she pulled him closer to her chest, and she rocked her pelvis against his stomach as the ecstasy coursed through her body.

She pulled away from him, and he growled deep in his throat in reluctance to let her leave, but he stopped when he saw her eyes. Those foxy grey eyes told him to wait, and she slowly pushed him onto the bed before she undid his belt and pants, 'accidentally' rubbing against his stiffened member every time her hands passed over that spot, causing him both great anguish and pleasure. Once she was done, she pulled his pants down, revealing him, and she smiled with a very frightening yet alluring look on her face as she leaned down until she was only inches away from him.

She blew softly on the already semi moist head, and Donovan nearly let out a yelp of pleasure. His muscles tensed as he tried to control himself. Her mouth came forward, and she kissed the tip of his penis, and he fought the urge to thrust at the feeling of this pleasure. Her soft lips deftly enveloped his head, and she gently bit him. Donovan nearly lost himself as the pleasure slammed into him. She slowly caressed him for a few more seconds before she got off the bed to undo the belt to her pants.

The pants fell and Donovan growled softly as finally Elenloth stood before him, completely bare, as he was. The complete lack of body hair astounded him, yet made her different than any human or vampiric woman he had seen naked. And she was beyond beautiful to him, completely perfect, and she was _his _just as he was hers. He gently grasped her hand and pulled her so that she was sitting with her back against his, with his manhood tucked between them.

Donovan rubbed her stomach gently. He tickled her navel for a few seconds before his fingers headed lower and lower until they reached the apex of her thighs. His fingers gently stroked her moist nether lips, and Elenloth whimpered softly. "Please," she whispered, her voice rich with desire. He suckled her neck gently as he let one of his fingers enter her moist core while his thumb found and pleasured her clitoris. As her moans turned into soft cries he let another finger join the first. He shivered with intense pleasure as she rocked against his invading fingers.

Elenloth then dropped her own hand atop his, and pushed his hand so his fingers penetrated deeper while her other hand brought his to her breasts. Donovan let her hands guide his, educating him how to pleasure her. Her moans and cries quieted, but not through lack of pleasure. Donovan felt her tense up around his fingers and felt the sweat start to moisten her body, making it slick against his. He pressed forward hard with his hips, pushing her core even harder against his fingers. She rocked back against him in return, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure. Warm moisture pooled around his fingers and dampened his hand. She relaxed against him, panting softly with slightly unfocused eyes. He grinned, glad that he had finally brought his love to full climax. But he had wanted her to sing out her pleasure, not keep it bottled inside where only she could hear it.

He withdrew his hand from her core, ignoring her weak protest against the feeling of loss. He rubbed his wet hand across her sweaty stomach, making it even wetter with her essence. Again his fingers gently played with her navel as he took the tip of her ear into his mouth. Letting it go, he blew on the moistened skin, feeling Elenloth shiver with another wave of desire.

Donovan leaned back into the bed, pulling her with him. He pulled her around so she faced him, and she also realized that now was the time that they finally bonded with each other's bodies. She straddled his hips, and positioned him so he would enter her. She slowly lowered herself, at first only teasing the tip of his penis with her wet lips. She finally slowly lowered herself all the way, and she gasped as he filled her. He moaned at how tight she felt against his enlarged self, and he nearly let go when she started rocking against him. He gently applied pressure to the back for her neck, guiding her down so he could kiss her.

Their bodies met before their mouths did, her still damp stomach pressing against his abdomen, her chest pushing against his, both breathing slightly faster than normal. Then their mouths met, and the kiss deepened nearly instantly, yet the kiss was soft. Donovan enjoyed every second that he could taste her sweet lemony flavor, even as she rocked atop him. Once the kiss ended, she leaned back up, and he watched with hooded eyes as she brought her hands down to her core, pleasuring herself still further. He brought his hands up, and started kneading her breasts. Her moans of pleasure started building in volume, and he felt himself nearly at the end. When he felt himself on the brink he brought his hands down to her hips, and he thrust forward with his hips even as he pulled down with his hands. He was as deep inside her as he could get when his climax was reached, and Elenloth cried out long and hard as her orgasm slammed into her. Donovan gasped as he felt the rhythmic pulsing of her core drain him of everything he had.

After a few seconds the moment of climax had passed, and Elenloth collapsed against him, breathing hard. Donovan withdrew from her body, Elenloth weakly whimpering as she protested the loss of his warmth within her. He pulled her sweaty body down so that she lay beside him, and she turned herself so she was spooned against him. He drew up a blanket to cover them, and Elenloth sleepily mumbled something in elvish. Almost subconsciously he drew her even closer to him by draping his arm across her smooth stomach, the other wrapping around her neck to cross over her chest. Elenloth stirred slightly, pressing herself closer against Donovan, seeking his protection. "I love you," she whispered softly.

Donovan smiled even as tears formed in his eyes. He had long waited to hear her say those words and not have them be spoken under the influence of a spell. "I love you too," he whispered back, kissing her cheek lightly. Sweat formed between the two of them as they lay there, sealing them together, and the lovers fell asleep at the very same time, one clutched by the other, being protected even in the quiet realms of peaceful slumber.

Donovan woke up later, alarm bells ringing in his head as he looked about sleepily, and he realized that Elenloth was no longer in the bed with him. He felt her heartbeat by the window, the slow and calm thumping showing that all was well. When he looked over to see her staring out the window, she was huddled under a blanket, tears silently coursing down her cheeks as she stared at the brightly glimmering stars.

He made his way over to her, and sat on the window bench behind her. He pulled her into his lap so they both could look outside. He lay his head down upon her shoulder, and looked at the stars, admiring the beautiful glittering as much as he admired the elleth he held close to him. "What's wrong?" he asked softly, and Elenloth started shuddering against him with tears.

But when she opened her mouth, she didn't answer him, but instead sung. Sung with all the beauty of the elves, a song that though Donovan couldn't understand the words, he understood the meaning. Elenloth sung of great joy found, but with such great sadness that Donovan felt silent tears start down his own face.

The song ended, and for a long time the two simply sat there, Donovan slowly rocking Elenloth. "I-I was so afraid that I would lose you when I heard your scream upon the field of battle. I rushed to your body, and carried you to the healers myself. I stayed by your side for the two days that you were unconscious, never leaving you for anything. I slept only fitfully, and did not eat, and drank only when forced. Yet when you started to awaken, I fled like a coward because I was still afraid of what my love for you meant." She turned her head towards his face, and he looked into her watery grey eyes. "I was so afraid that you would leave me!" she said with such sadness that Donovan drew her in for a silent and sweet kiss.

He drew back, and rubbed away her tears with his thumbs. He gave her a sad smile. "I cannot promise that I will not leave you, for that is foolish. I may or may not, whichever is my destiny. But I _will_ try to stay with you with all my strength, using all my skills and strength to keep on going, no matter the situation."

Elenloth responded by leaning into him and kissing him deeply. Their tongues danced slowly as they began to caress each other. Soon Donovan carried Elenloth to the bed, and they made love again, only so many times more gently than before, and so much longer.

They spent nearly an hour exploring each other's bodies, finding out exactly what brought the most pleasure to them. They both reached their climaxes at the same time, Elenloth crying out his name even as he cried hers. As Donovan felt Elenloth collapse against him while her core pulsated around him and his seed spilled into her body, Donovan felt a joy that he hadn't in a long time.

He held her quivering body against his own, which was also shaking with the aftermath of what Elen had done to him (gods, he didn't even know that you could _do_ that with your mouth!). He felt her take a shaky breath, and she whispered into his ear. "Please, Donovan! At least promise me that you'll see the birth of our first child, and that you will help me raise that child!"

Donovan felt her start to shake with tears instead of pleasure, and he brought her even closer to him. "I swear to all the Valar and Eru himself that I will live that long!"

She lifted her head, and looked long and deep into his eyes. She started to smile like an angel as she bent down to kiss his brow. "Your eyes are the clearest and softest gold I have ever seen them at, Donovan Cerridwen. It tells me that your soul is finally at rest, and that alone makes me happy."

Again she lay against him, and both felt sleep start to take them. They both embraced each other, and fell asleep as such. Both unwilling to let go of the other person, and both were willing to go to the end of Arda to save the other. The stars shone down upon them, blessing the union that had come at long last…


	39. Coup

**AN- Second time I've posted this chapter. A technical error was pointed out to me (thanks, Muddie) and I fixed it here.**

**My original AN simply apologizes for this chapter's slight shortness of length.**

**Read, enjoy, and please review.**

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Donovan slowly awoke, Elenloth's scent surrounding him, and he basked in it peacefully. He could not remember waking up feeling so happy and refreshed for the longest time. He slightly tightened the embrace he shared with the elleth and smiled as she returned the gesture.

His eyes snapped open an instant before someone began pounding frantically on the door. _Gods, why can't moments like these last?_ the half-vampire thought tiredly. "I'll get it," he told Elenloth, who was still in the process of waking up.

Donovan swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up as he grabbed his pants up off of the floor. He put them on as he crossed the room, awkwardly hopping as he slipped each leg through their respective holes. The pounding sounded again, this time even more urgently. "All right, all right, I'm coming!"

He wrenched open the door and froze as he saw who it was. Matt stood on his doorstep, breathing heavily as though he had run all the way from the camp to his room. And he was afraid. Not only was the emotion easily seen, but he also reeked of it. "Sir," he panted, "I have the most damnable news for you!"

Donovan didn't even pause to think. "Hang on a second." He shut the door and spun towards Elen. "Get dressed, fast," he snapped as he stooped down and tossed her shirt over to her. Within minutes Donovan pulled open the door and beckoned Matt inside. Glancing out the door to see if he could spot what had his second in command so spooked, he shrugged uneasily as he shut the door again.

The second that the door closed, Matt was talking. "Sir, I have something to tell you which is the most horrifying thing I have ever heard. The men are planning to rebel against you."

Donovan just stared at him for a few seconds before he blinked in shock. "I'm sorry, could you run that by me again?"

"The men…they are planning a coup."

Donovan walked over to the bed and sat down on it heavily, Elen coming to sit next to him. "Do you know who is involved? More importantly, where the hell did you find this out?"

"Well, I was walking through the camp last night, and was requested by Captain Grosh to come and share a drink with him. Though he had never done this before, I was not too shocked, especially since this was Grosh we are talking about. So I agreed, and soon I was sitting in the good Captain's tent, enjoying a cup of fine Gondorian ale. Then Grosh leaned towards me. 'Lieutenant,' he said, 'what do you think of that bastard half-vampire who leads us?'

"I looked into his eyes, and saw a hint of madness. 'And why do wish to know of my opinion to one of the most frighteningly powerful men that either you or I know?'

"'I watched one hundred eight of my men die and my best friend also fell because of him. Where was he during the siege? Perched upon some stone so he could watch us get slaughtered, right? Well, I'm tired of it. I say that we take control of this army into our own hands. I need your support, for not all of the men will follow me. But they will follow you.'

"Well, needless to say, I almost panicked right then. I decided that the best course of action would be to play along. 'You're right, I also hate him. I didn't know that others share my views,' I told Grosh, and he believed me.

"'I already have to of my sergeants definitely behind me, as well as one of the sergeants of First Battalion. A few of the RAD snipers, and a few others. I say we pose an 'accident' and make it look like our beloved leader fell at the hands of a Gondorian. And you already have control of the army. So you order the army to take revenge. With our weapons, we'll be able to seize Minas Tirith quite easily.'

"And so you see, sir, I am now part of the coup, and we plan to overthrow you…soon."

Donovan stared at the floor, his mind going a mile a minute, trying to see a way out of this. Finally he looked up to Matt. "Alright, you have to win the trust of those traitors. You are not allowed to contact me from now on, excepting that which you would normally contact me for.

"Have some men that you trust like no others to join up and act as moles and messengers. You have to find out all the names of the men of the coup. I need to know those who are betraying me so that I may counter them before they strike.

"Also, order the men of the coup to wait until after Mordor and James have been defeated before they make their move. And before Eomer leaves for Rohan. This way you won't have to worry about Mordor and you can cripple both Rohan and Gondor by taking out their nobility."

"Yes sir. Is that all?"

Donovan nodded, and Matt stood, saluted, and left without another word. The second the door clicked shut, Donovan roared and slammed his fist against the wall, the stone shattering around his fist, forming a web-shaped pattern of cracks.

Noticing how Elen jumped at his violent reaction, his shoulders slumped wearily. "I'm sorry I acted that way, it's just…" he sighed as he tried to explain his actions in vain.

"They were your men. To have them betray you was the last thing you expected." She scooted closer to him and wrapped her arms around him. He shuddered with a suppressed sob, but then was in control again. He wrapped his arms around Elen and nuzzled her neck softly.

When Donovan smelled Elen's arousal he growled softly, the rumble that was almost a purr. But he had a job to do. Many, many jobs. He sighed as he pulled back, pausing only to kiss Elen softly. "I have to go forge a new sword, as well as keep my men supplied. I wish I could stay with you, but I don't want to slack off on my duties."

Elen nodded, and Donovan stood, pulling her up with him. "I am going to make a weapon that rivals even those that were used by the Valar in days of old. Maybe not in power, but in quality and keenness of blade. You shall see. You shall see, I promise."

April 4th, 11:43; Gondorian Smithy, Elenloth's POV:

She leaned against the wall, next to the smith who was watching Donovan pound the hammer against the steel he had on the anvil. It was the sword that Donovan had promised. He had magically made both silver-steel and mithril through his magic, and it was with these that he made his sword.

He had explained it to her when he took a break to replenish the supplies of his men. This 'katana' he was making was made by folding metal over and over and over again until the blade was created. To do it properly, the folds had to be hard and then soft. The soft metal was the silver-steel, and the hard metal was the mithril.

Gandalf now stood next to the half-vampire, softly murmuring the spell that would bless the blade. With the final blow of his hammer, Donovan shouted in triumph. Without another second passing, he grasped the still hot blade and ran his hand along the length of it, his blood coating the shimmering blade.

Gandalf shouted something in Quenyan, and the sword glowed flaringly bright before it faded to a soft glow, the blood now gone. "Donovan, as long as you live, that sword shall not fail you. However, once you die, it will be destroyed forever, even if you come back," Gandalf stated grimly.

Donovan nodded as he licked the wound on his palm. Gandalf grunted as he turned and left the small smithy. Elen came forward, and sat on the bench where Donovan sat wearily, sweat covering his bare torso like a second skin.

She watched as the half-vampire delicately picked up the blade with a blanket covering his hand. "I will never touch the blade with my bare hand, as with a normal blade, this could lead to rusting." He snapped his fingers, and the sword handle materialized.

"This is the tsuka, made with black oak. Both the fuchi kashira, the pommel cap, and the tsuba, the hand guard, are made of black steel. The tsuka ito, the handle wrap, is made of black leather, and the tsuka is exactly eleven inches long." He slipped the tang into the tsuka. "The tang is ten inches long," he said as he slipped pegs into holes along the length of the tsuka, securing the blade in the handle.

Again he snapped his fingers, a black sheath appearing in his lax hand. "The Japanese would call this the saya, and it, too, is made of black steel. The wrappings near the mouth of the sheath, sageo, are of black silk. The sword is three feet and six-and-a-half inches long, weighing three and three-tenths pounds. Middle Earth has never seen a sword of this quality, and with it, I will defeat James."

He stood, holding his hand out to Elen, who took it gratefully. _Ever since that night near two weeks ago, he has been so much more courteous to both me and everyone. It is a pity we didn't get the chance to repeat those actions._ Donovan drew her up into a soft and chaste kiss.

Unfortunately, before they could continue, the thundering roars of the artillery opening fire interrupted them. Donovan sighed, and gently grasped her arm in a matter befitting that of a gentleman. He led her out of the smithy and into the bright spring sunshine.

They both walked to the wall, and looked down upon the two city levels under them, and the wide plains beyond. Elenloth heard Donovan sigh as he slid his sword into his belt.

She looked to where he was facing, and saw the far off Mountains of Shadow that bordered Mordor. Beyond them the clouds of war were already gathering again. He sighed again, and she leaned against. If this was to comfort him, or if it was to comfort her, she wasn't sure.

They stood like that for a long while, but then Elen heard a horn on the wind that was coming from the north-west. She turned her gaze towards Rohan, and her eyes widened with disbelief.

A huge army was coming to Minas Tirith, and its arrival would be greatly appreciated. She counted at least eight hundred Rohirrim. But it was not that which made her heart speed up with hope, but the sight of the entirety of the Lorien army, all one thousand of them. Not only the wardens, no doubt led by Haldir, but also the Royal Guards and anyone else who had decided to volunteer. Leading them were the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien, Celeborn and Galadriel.

And behind them flew the proud banner of the Mirkwood elves, with their king at the head of the army, which stood at least two thousand strong. Seven hundred dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, led by King Dain, it looked like, and eight hundred Esgaroth men, led by King Brand, had also come.

"Well," Donovan mused. "It looks like we have a chance after all."


	40. Last Goodbyes

* * *

**AN- Sorry about the AN being centered, and sorry again for this update to have come so late. Recently I have been working very hard on the book I plan to be published as my debut novel, so...**

**Anyway, there is a lemon in this chapter, ye have been warned. I hope you enjoy, and I pray that you review.**

CHAPTER FORTY

April 6th, 13:49; Minas Tirith, Overall POV:

"We need a single leader for this army!" Boromir snapped, pounding his fist upon the table that seated the entirety of the lords and captains that led the armies assembled at Minas Tirith.

Donovan stood in the corner, like usual, and he watched the bickering leaders with impatience. They were supposed to leave today, and midday had already passed. Not only that but he had also planned to equip his men with a new weapon system, and that took quite a long time. He would have to equip the entire army with it, which was impossible using the M16.

There was a disdainful sniff from the elf section, and Donovan looked up to see Thranduil standing. "I refuse to have my thousand elves led by a human," he stated, and then glared towards where the dwarves were, "and especially not a _dwarf_!"

Legolas sighed from where he sat by his father. "Ada, that is not fair-!"

But before he could finish, the dwarves burst into an uproar, with the exception of Gimli. Soon the entire gathering was shouting accusations at one another, the only people still quiet were the Lothlorien elves and Aragorn.

Donovan growled in frustration, and let his aura expand. He himself was unsure of just how much strength he had gained during the battle, but now he was at least three times as strong then he was at Helm's Deep. All he knew was that he constantly had to work at keeping his aura masked. But once he relaxed that control…

Things in the room visibly darkened, and it grew significantly cooler. All bickering stopped as everyone looked over to the half-vampire in the corner. Though his aura wasn't truly visible, you could still _see_ it. The air around Donovan seemed to bend and flicker as his aura radiated around him. "I would suggest," he said in a deadly quiet voice, "that Aragorn is named the leader of the entire army."

Thranduil bristled with anger again. "Might I ask why a _human_ is demanding that another human lead us all?" he ground out.

Donovan almost laughed as everyone that had been part of the Fellowship or had even known him at one point or another paled with fright. Legolas almost leapt up to pull his father back down. Instead he withdrew his aura and stood away from the wall.

He calmly brought his left hand down to the sword at his hip. He loosened the sword from the sheath with his thumb by pushing the tsuba with his thumb, the blade giving off a soft click as the habaki cleared the sheath. "Not everything is as it appears, idiot elf."

That was when Thranduil let his anger get the better of him. "I could have you killed, you insolent little-!" It was at that point that King Thranduil froze, namely because a flawless blade was gently poking his neck, right above the jugular.

All that had been seen of Donovan's charge was a sharp blur as he nearly flew across the room. And as Donovan stood poised to strike down Thranduil, he laughed a deep, dark, and hollow laugh. "And what makes you think this, _king_?" He shifted his gaze to stare directly into the eyes of the one he held captive. Donovan's eyes were as hard as diamond, and as bright as the sun. "I am _perin ringwethrin_, half-vampire. Not only that, but I am also _Hald Brannon_, a High Lord of my people. Don't underestimate me. Do so, and die a very slow and painful death."

Everything in the room had long since frozen. Thranduil began to speak, slowly and deliberately. "Do you…dare threaten me?"

Donovan gave another chuckle. "Trust me, I don't usually threaten. Normally you would already be dead by now. But you shouldn't fear me unless you seriously tick me off. Instead I am warning you." Donovan stepped back, sheathing his sword in a fluid movement. "The one who has the Ring right now is pure vampire, and probably more powerful at this point then Sauron ever was. The only way to defeat him is to have a single leader for us all. And Aragorn would be the best choice at this point."

Thranduil scoffed. "Why would that be?"

"He is human, though of Numenorian blood. Not only that, but he is elf-raised. He is a combination of those two worlds. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go resupply my men."

April 6th, 16:54; Pelennor Fields, Sergeant David Âmul's POV:

When Lieutenant said that he, David Âmul, was sergeant of 3rd Company, he felt an undeniable pride. But now…

"Corporal Durgaz! Get your soldiers back into proper dress!" he snapped, referring to the nine Gondorians who wore their woodland camo BDUs with the blouses (AN: this is what the military calls the button-up jacket, not much I can do about it) unbuttoned. "We're moving out soon, do your men have filled canteens?"

Corporal Durgaz nodded sharply. "Yessir!" And then the newly promoted corporal stomped towards his squad to start scolding them for being out of uniform. David sighed, and looked around the staging area assigned to his company. So much had happened. Sixty-five of the uniforms had black armbands with the White Tree emblazoned on them. Nine of the corporals were recently promoted from the thirty-five Durvagorians still left alive from the unit. Only seven would have, but Corporal Amubnar and Corporal Ilz were transferred to 2nd Company. Only the corporals and sergeant of 2nd Company weren't Gondorian, but the remaining ninety soldiers were. At least the Gondorians were Ithilien Rangers, instead of standard infantry.

David started when he saw Donovan approaching with a handful of men and a supply wagon. "Company, ATTEN-_HUT!_" he shouted out, and all his men and women snapped to as Donovan entered the staging area.

"Sergeant, I have good news," Donovan called out. "I have better equipment for the army. This entire wagon is your company's new stuff, but I want to explain it to you before I continue equipping the rest of the army."

David jogged over to Donovan, wondering what was up. As he drew closer, Donovan drew back the cover on the wagon, and David couldn't help but stare. "Now, I know that this is like nothing you've ever seen before. But your new gear will be able to be used anywhere we go, even into Mordor."

The half-vampire pulled out a set of BDUs. "Instead of your woodland camo color scheme, these use the ACU digital pattern which was developed to blend in with any environment. I know it looks weird, but these are really useful. I've made you all of your old gear in this same color configuration, plus some new gear, like your combat vests."

David blinked uncertainly. "Combat vests, sir?"

"Basically the same thing as your load bearing equipment, only in one sturdy vest that will fit over your body armor. It has bands sewn onto it that you can attach your gear to. Not only that, but I've also made you better weapons."

"We need better weapons? Sir, I liked the M16."

"But this is better." Donovan pulled up the odd looking weapon. "This is the M8 Carbine, which was the successor of the M16. And since this war has just begun, we need every single advantage we can gather together. Even Aragorn has asked if I would train two thousand Gondorians how to use the confiscated orc weapons. Unfortunately, because of recent complications, namely a stuck-up elvish king, we will not be leaving until tomorrow morning. So if you have anyone, anyone at all, that you want to say goodbye to, I'd do it now."

The first face that came to David's mind was that of the little Gondorian girl, Hanariel. Her mother, Adra, had invited him to eat with them, for he had saved her family, as well as her. "Thank you sir, I will sir."

"Oh, and David, if I were to suggest something? Now that you have something to live for, don't be quick to throw away your life. I would hate to have that little girl lose the closest thing to a father that she has."

David only stared at him with shock. "Sir. How did you-?"

"Don't worry about it. All I can say is to treat her well. She seems like a nice girl."

David nodded numbly. "Yes, sir."

April 6th, 18:02; Inside Minas Tirith, Sergeant David Âmul's POV:

He nervously knocked on the door. After all, how could he not be nervous? All his life, he had known nothing but war. And now he was being given a chance at peace. He couldn't refuse. He tried to compose himself as the door creaked open and Hanariel's face peeked around the corner. Immediately her face lit up, and she ran inside, squealing happily. "Momma! He came!"

The door opened all the way, and David smiled at Adra as she sighed. "You'll have to excuse Hana, she gets excited even at the mere mention of you." She motioned him inside, where he saw the rest of the children seated at the table, just about to begin supper. "You have become her hero."

He gave a soft chuckle. "Sometimes I wonder why."

Adra motioned towards a chair with her hand. "Please, have a seat." Her expression suddenly turned sad. "Tonight is your last night here, isn't it?"

David sighed while he looked at all the small faces that were looking at him curiously. "Yes, it is my last night in Minas Tirith."

"But…" Hanariel started. "But daddy had to go away, and he never came back!"

David gave a humorless chuckle. "Trust me, I'm harder to kill then you'd think."

Adra looked at him, an odd expression set upon her face. "Do you know when you will return?" she asked as she set his place and began dishing out the stew and still warm bread.

"I have no clue, but both Lord Donovan and Lieutenant Matthiol seem to think it is going to be a long campaign. This is why I've come bearing gift for each and every one of you, to say thank you for what hospitality you've shown me." He pulled out a nice sized bag. "Hanariel, you are eldest at the age of eight. To you I give a medal that was given to me by Donovan himself. He said it was for my bravery during battle." He handed the little girl the heavy iron cross that was attached to a fine chain.

"Meneldur, you are the eldest son of Adra at the age of seven years and eleven months. To you I give one of my pairs of boots. One day you will be able to wear them as a man."

"Anar and Petra, the twin brother and sister, the ones who are six years. To you I give my dog-tags, so that I can always be remembered."

"And finally, Elianna, the youngest at five years of age. I give you this. My spare journal. When you are learning to read and write, you will be able to use this."

"What are you going to be giving momma?" Hana asked softly.

"I already gave her something precious. Several things, in fact. Hope, and through protecting you five, I also gave her you all. And one more thing. I solemnly give her a promise. I swear to try my very hardest to come back from this war." The rest of the night was spent eating the fine meal, and conversing quietly into the late hours of darkness.

April 6th, 22:13; Donovan's Quarters, Overall POV:

He had her pushed up against the wall, captured by a possessive kiss. They broke free, breathing heavily. "I'm sorry that we haven't had the time to do this for the entire week," Donovan murmured softly as he began another kiss.

Elen broke free again. "Let's not talk, please," she gasped as she undid his belt. His pants fell to the floor, quickly followed by her own. He picked her up by the hips as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

"So quickly?" he asked breathlessly as he nudged her nether lips.

She growled softly at the feeling. "Just as long as we reach completion at the same time, I don't care. We can take our time later."

"As you wish," he breathed against her ear, and smiled as she shivered in anticipation. Before she could respond, he thrust forward hard and quick, entering her fully. She cried out both in pain and pleasure at the sudden intrusion. "I'm not hurting you, am I?" he asked softly.

"Ah…no! No...you aren't…quite the opposite!" she gasped as her legs tightened, drawing him even further into her. "Oh…Valar! Donov…how could I…?" she groaned as she began rocking against him.

He began rubbing slow circles up and down her back as he took over the tempo, moving slightly faster with each passing thrust. It was not long before Elen was begging for release, and he felt his own approaching. "Do…we want a child?" he gasped.

"Yes!" Elen cried out, almost in tears from the pleasure that was burning throughout her body. "Yes! I want a child born of our blood!"

Donovan gave one last hard thrust as he bit down on Elen's neck, and she went over the brink with him. She shouted hoarsely with the force of her climax, and Donovan shuddered as he felt himself release, her womb taking his seed with strong pulsations of her inner muscles.

The half-vampire suddenly realized that the rich and bitter flavor of blood was in his mouth. He had drunk her blood at the very moment of climax, and the wound on her neck was already closed. He remembered when he once said that he would never drink the blood of one he loved. He didn't care, though. He realized that under some situations it was not bad, mainly in this case.

He drew Elen close to him as he walked over to the bed. He gently laid her down, and removed both his and her shirts. He got into the bed next to her and held her naked form close to his. "Elen, I beg of you. Stay in Minas Tirith, don't go with the army to Mordor."

She chuckled softly and sleepily. "My Lady Galadriel will be staying here, along with all of those who are too wounded to go. As I am her personal bodyguard and attendant, I will not leave her side after her husband leaves for war. Besides, I now carry our child, and will be in no condition to go to war before long. Just remember your promise. Please, I implore you, remember it!"

Donovan sighed as he drew her even closer to him. "I won't forget, I promise."


	41. Five Years

**AN- Here's 41. It's almost one o'clock in the morning, so this AN will be very short. New weaponry pictures are available in my profile. Check them out.**

**Read, enjoy, and please review.**

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

April 6th, 07:34; Inside Mordor, Sergeant David Âmul's POV:

David's eyes snapped open as he awoke from the strange dream. It was one that he dreamt all the time, ever since that last night in Minas Tirith, five years ago. He sighed. _For five damned years we have been inside of Mordor, and this war is still continuing._

Things were so different from five years ago, as well. When they had been marching to Mordor, the Durvagorians carried field packs that had roughly seventy pounds of gear in them. When the Gondorians joked that it looked like they carried mountains upon their backs, one of the RAD snipers, Megan Dhurum, gave one of the Gondorians her field pack. The Gondorian didn't make the second mile before giving up. Now any Gondorian could probably carry a field pack all day.

They reached the Black Gate without any casualties, and quickly set up defensive trenches and firing positions. Then the man called the 'Mouth of Sauron' came out. The lords and captains of the Final Alliance, as the allied forces called themselves, rode forth to parlay.

The Mouth of Sauron foolishly demanded that they surrender, and when it was questioned what would happen if they didn't do so, they were told. The exact words of the Mouth of Sauron had been recorded.

'"Then you will die, your soldiers slaughtered, and you yourselves captured to be slowly tortured to death. Before you pass on, we would bring your women before you and rape them, leaving them broken and bleeding before you. And we will kill them unmercifully, beating them with iron rods until all bones in their bodies are broken.

"And we would kill you one by one, only slaying you as you watch your cities burn and your people get slaughtered like pigs. That is what you will suffer if you resist. So now I ask, what is your decision?"

After hearing this threat, Donovan himself struck the Mouth of Sauron down, knocking him off of his sick and weary horse before picking him up and stabbing him in his stomach. Donovan then pushed the sword so that the blade moved up into the man's body. Donovan later said that he moved the sword around so that he damaged none of the vital organs, instead leaving the man to die through blood loss.

Well, the Alliance's answer was obvious enough. A short battle ensued, and they managed to push the orc host back into Mordor far enough for David and his Third Company plus another company from Second Battalion to rush forward.

For the next two hours, they were busy clearing out the catacombs around the Black Gate. David would never forget that fight. He could barely see without the aid of the NVGs that Donovan had issued them, and every tunnel was perfect as an ambush point. But finally they broke through to the gate, and captured it.

After they routed the remaining orc forces, the Final Alliance pushed forward, and dug extensive trench systems around the gate. Donovan gave them sand-bags, and the ashy earth of Mordor was used to fill them. Soon an entire base was set up with many different forms of defenses. Razor wire and mines on the outer perimeter, claymores and pungee sticks closer in, and then the trenches and themselves with their weapons.

But they soon found out they couldn't get in any deeper into Mordor. The orcs had almost mimicked their defenses, and then both sides sat down and wait, with the orcs periodically building up enough manpower to assault the Final Alliance. Each of their assaults failed, giving the Final Alliance better weapons with each passing attack. For the Dark Lord James had been giving his soldiers more advanced weaponry with every passing battle. Currently they used the weapon that Donovan had identified as the AK47.

Not that David really cared. The M8 he was using was one of the best weapons he ever had the opportunity to use. But even with the advanced weaponry, they weren't strong enough to delve into Mordor. To fix their relative lack of sufficient numbers, messengers were sent out back to the free peoples of Middle Earth. Any man who was either skilled in arms or young and fit was urged to go to Mordor and fight.

At first they only came in handfuls and trickles. But soon more and more people came, sometimes with women who could cook and tend to wounds. Eventually not eighteen thousand but forty thousand allied soldiers were assembled at the Black Gate. Fifteen thousand of the new soldiers were trained specifically by Durvagorians. And Donovan was always busy, building up stockpiles of weapons and ammo. But eventually the Final Alliance could move.

From that point onward, they won little victory after little victory. Sometimes they gained only two hundred feet of ground, and sometimes they captured as much as a mile. And so what had been dubbed the 'War of Horror' dragged on. Throughout it all, David watched his brethren and men who he had come to know as well as he would know brothers die, take lives, collapse from the mental stress of the war, and become heroes through their actions.

And no longer was the Durvagorian army an army. Donovan often said that they had become true soldiers, even the Gondorian Rangers who had joined up at Minas Tirith. But now they were spread out over the entire front. No longer were the Durvagorians grouped by battalions. Instead sergeants were given almost free rein.

And even Donovan and Lieutenant Matthiol said that David's unit was the best of all the forces, excepting possibly the elves. He had an uncanny ability at reading the enemy movements, and could counter them based on what he saw.

David was broken out of his musings by the sound of incoming artillery. He listened intently for only a few seconds. "Shit! Enemy arty incoming!" he shouted, and his men, who had been relaxing only seconds before scrambled into action, jumping into what had once been an orc trench. He ducked down as the first shell impacted, barely fifty feet from the trench. "Where's my comm off?" he bellowed, and one of the Gondorian soldiers ran forward, a bulky radio on his back.

"Sir?" he called out over the sound of incoming artillery. The 'comm off', the communications officer, ducked and came even closer.

"Get me HQ on the horn!"

The comm off nodded and fiddled with the radio pack as he rang up HQ. Once he was done, he handed David the phone.

"This is Amul, at coordinate echo-niner! We're receiving heavy tango arty, and we need those guns to be silenced!"

"Roger, guns alpha, bravo, and charlie are protecting your AO (AN: Area of Operation, the area where each unit is given to do its mission in) so just hang in until the dragon can direct fire."

"Roger, over-and-out." In less then five minutes, the rumble of guns firing behind them was clearly heard, and not long after that the orc guns ceased firing. "Prepare for assault!" David shouted, and his men prepared for the certain orc attack force.

Oddly enough, after an hour of waiting, no attack came. David let his men continue their previous activities. Most played either dice or cards, while others slept. As David got out his binoculars and scanned the surrounding perimeter, he was silently chuckling at how strange things could turn out to be. All of his soldiers were battle hardened, and most had picked up little survival tactics. None of them had seen bathing water in at least a month, though they could use moist towels to wipe off the outer layer of grease and grime. As David was thinking he noticed a small flash on the outer perimeter. He focused on it and froze when he realized it was an orc sniper, aiming straight at him!

But before he could react, he watched as the orc's head nearly exploded in a puff of black blood. The dry crack of a sniper rifle firing rolled over the trench, and everyone reflexively ducked while the SDMs (AN: Squad Designated Marksmen, generally an anti-sniper unit, using an accurized and long-barreled M8 rifle with an 8x scope in this case) readied their weapons.

But David recognized that weapon's firing signature. It was louder and heavier than the standard issue RAD Sniper Rifle. And only one person used a sniper rifle that wasn't a RAD. Corporal Megan Dhurum, aka 'Hotshot Megan.' The reason she got her nickname was because she was one of the best snipers in the army, besides Donovan. During a week long excursion into enemy territory with one hundred twenty bullets she bagged one hundred eight confirmed kills and eleven unconfirmed kills. The record before that point was ninety-seven confirmed kills, held by a Corporal George Sriz.

While off duty, it was rumored that the two snipers had the hots for each other, but they could not help but be rivals while out in the field. And it was said that no one would be able to break the new record, not even Donovan if he was restricted by the same conditions. And so Donovan made Megan a new rifle. The M40A1, a 7.62mm bolt-action internal magazine sniper rifle. Though the shots had to be inserted into the rifle one at a time, each shot was match-grade quality and was therefore slightly more powerful and accurate than the RAD bullets. Now Megan generally worked as a counter-sniper when she wasn't out on field excursions that directly targeted the orc command structure. And if not that, then she was covering the Alliance's command structure. Evidently, just like now.

What could have been a pile of rocks and ash stood up not more then fifty feet away. It was Megan, in a ghillie suit designed to match Mordor's terrain. She quickly jogged over, her rifle held protectively against her chest. "That was one of Mordor's best snipers. He's killed two corporals, and a Gondorian sergeant, as well as wounding Thranduil in the arm. Your lucky I saw him first." She jumped into the trench, and sat against the wall. "I got a radio message, and you should be getting one soon as well. James has finally come forth, and he seems to be headed to the flat land flanking your AO. I'm supposed to go with you to Howler's Crag so we will be able to put some flanking fire upon James and his orcs."

"Howler's Crag?" David asked.

"The bluff where the orc sniper just died in." She looked towards the jagged stone rise in the distance. "Matthiol says that if you have any letters to send, you should write it now, and send it back to HQ."

David nodded. This would probably be the final battle. He had already written what would probably be the last letter going back to Adra and her children. It would be so weird going back after five years. Hana would be thirteen years old! "Comm off!" he called out, and the man ran up. "Take this, and any other letters or personal effects that the soldiers want sent back to HQ, and stay there," he said as he handed the Gondorian his small stack of letters.

The comm off nodded and ran down the trench, gathering items and letters along the way. Once he started running back towards the base, David turned towards his company. "Corporals, take your men and have them get into arrow-head formations. First squad, move out on my signal. The rest of you continue on numerically according to your squad number at fifty feet intervals. Move out!"


	42. The Final Battle part I

**AN- And so, the final battle begins...**

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Donovan stared out over the rugged and desolate terrain of Mordor as he pensively thought about his wife that now waited for him in Minas Tirith with their daughter. Where he had heard her name 'Elanathiel' in his dreams he was wrong. Elen had named the beautiful little girl Elanariel. Whenever he had the chance, Donovan flew back to Minas Tirith on Cerul, the first time with both Frodo and Sam. The two had been found in Cirith Ungol, in surprisingly good health. Evidently James didn't really care about them, so he had ordered that they be kept healthy. James was strange that way.

He had seen his daughter and wife ten times now, and he loved them with all his heart. Still, not everything was perfect. Elanariel detested the sun, though it didn't do any noticeable damage to her. She also had tiny fangs, and was unable to live off of a solid diet yet. From what Donovan knew, she would be able to in the near future, as long as she didn't drink any blood before then. Donovan really didn't want any of his children to drink blood. As far as he was concerned, he was the Last Vampire on Arda. His children, for he hoped for at least one son, would learn of their ancestry, but they wouldn't be burdened by it, or he would be damned!

He also couldn't wait until he got back because he could deal with the coup more easily back at Minas Tirith. And he now knew more about the coup than most of the members did. His spies were doing a very good job.

He gently touched the scar of the Witchking's blade. As time went on, he had noticed the wound's effects getting weaker. If he was lucky, he might see another one thousand years, though he doubted that. If only he had been able to see his wife and child one last time before this battle!

It was then that he felt it. A massive aura that pressed heavily upon his mind, making him wince from the sheer power of it! James was approaching steadily. Donovan turned back to look at the Allied host gathered behind him. All the leaders and their personal guard units and attendants, as well as some of the more elite soldiers among the different factions. Everyone knew that it was this battle that would determine the fate of Middle Earth.

"I doubt that James will bring many soldiers with him, but the ones he does bring will be very powerful. Please, let me handle this last fight. Unless some of you doubt my fighting ability…"

No one said anything. After all, Donovan made sure that he played a more…_active_…roll in this battle. Not too long ago, the entire allied army was held up by one stubborn orc battalion that controlled a strong defensive position just across from the center of the allied battle line.

After the orcs had beaten off three attacks, Donovan went out one night with nothing but his sword. It was said that the screams were heard even in Minas Tirith. As well as the gunfire. But in the morning, Donovan came back, looking tired but happy. A unit of elves went forth to secure the position. Many came back throwing up. The carnage was terrible, no orc left alive. Each and every one of them had been brutally butchered. Thousands of shell casings littered the floor of the small fortress, and barely any of the walls were untouched by gunfire. And the floor was a sea of black blood, with islands of bodies and refuse. Seven hundred fifty orcs were counted dead, and no one really bothered Donovan after that incident.

But Donovan knew, especially as James approached, that he probably wasn't strong enough. The half-vampire took in a calming breath and released it as the Dark Lord of Mordor finally came into view.

Donovan had been right in his presumption. It looked like there were sixty figures surrounding James, though fifty of them were too big to be orcs, yet too small to be trolls. And when they drew closer, Donovan suddenly realized what they were. Lycanthropes, the ancestral enemy of most Midians (vampires), yet some were conscripted into duty back on Earth. Evidently James made some.

Finally, the vampire reached shouting distance, where he and his soldiers halted. "Ohhh Donovan! I'm here, now what is your next move? Come, show it to me, and let us see how this game will play out!" James keened out. "You beat my orc armies, even though I have equipped them with automatic rifles, artillery, and-" he stopped for a second, and snapped out his left hand, catching something out of mid-air.

Corporal Megan Dhurum's POV:

She stared through her scope at the figure of James in shock. _He caught my bullet? How the _hell _can someone do that? _She quickly cycled the bolt of her rifle, the spent shell casing flipping out of the M40A1. But as she aimed again, she was surprised to see James pointing at her position, three-quarters of a mile from where he stood.

She yelped as the scope shattered as it was crushed, the glass flying into her eye. She dropped the rifle as she clutched her face while screaming in pain. She barely heard the voices around her. "Sweet Eru! Someone get the medic! Hurry!"

"Megan! It's going to be okay, don't worry, you'll be all right, you-" the sniper heard someone murmur comfortingly as she slid into unconsciousness.

Overall POV:

James sneered. "It isn't polite to interrupt someone while they are talking," he snapped as the crack of the sniper rifle rolled over them. "Call your dogs off, or I'll kill you all now."

Donovan dropped his hand to his sword's hilt. "You have to get through me first," he growled.

James smirked as he brought up the hand that still held the rifle bullet. "Donovan, what happens when you coat a seven-point-six-two bullet with your battle energy, and then fire it four times faster than its usual muzzle velocity at something?"

Donovan froze, realizing just what James was asking. But before he could say anything, James casually flicked the bullet so it screamed past Donovan and towards the allied army. Donovan spun on his heel to see the bullet punch through several lines of soldiers, the bullet tearing large holes into whatever it touched.

Donovan snapped as he spun forward and let his battle ki completely go, the sheer power of it blasting the ash and dirt away from him. He roared as he charged forward, hand on the hilt of his katana. To him it seemed almost as though there wasn't any noise as the Lycanthropes counter charged, moving at fast and rolling gaits. But only ten engaged him, the rest ran by and towards the allied forces.

But before he could give chase, a heavy and clawed hand slammed him in the side of the head. The onslaught began.

Legolas's POV:

He fired as quickly as he could, but none of his arrows seemed to hit, something that infuriated him. Screams and shouts of horrified pain suddenly sounded as the creatures tore into their lines, their claws ripping elves, men, and dwarves apart, their body parts being thrown away from them.

Suddenly one of the creatures jumped in front of him, and he released a shot right into its throat. Unfortunately that only seemed to annoy it as it grabbed him and threw him. As Legolas flew through the air, he had enough sense to holster his bow and take out his knives before he landed gracefully upon his feet. _No one_ picked up and threw him! He charged towards the creature as it charged him. But as they met, the only thing that could be seen was the rapid flashes of his knives as he repeatedly struck at the monster. Its blood sprayed into the air as it yelped in pain, but it retaliated, swinging a heavy claw at him, intending to take his head off.

He leapt back, trying to dodge the claws. Unfortunately he wasn't fast enough. Legolas gasped as three of the beast's hooked claws tore across his face, ripping through his skin. The elf prince was barely aware of the fact that his head snapped down, and blood spattered across the ashy ground. Instead of feeling pain or fear, Legolas instead felt a horrible anger well up inside of him.

He shouted out a battle cry as he swung but twice, his left dagger ramming through the bottom of the monster's jaw and piercing through its nasal cavity and out the top of its snout. His right blade rammed through its heart, and the creature gave one final and terrible jerk as it fell to the ground, finally dead.

Legolas stumbled wearily before he steadied, and he moved towards a group of elves who were systematically killing the monsters. They could use his help just as he could use theirs…

Gimli's POV:

"Come and feel the bite of my axe, ye filthy mongrels!" Gimli roared as three of the creatures tore through a group of dwarves. One did charge him, unfortunately underestimating the sturdy dwarf. Gimli bellowed a war cry as he swung low and hard, his mighty two-handed blow catching the monster right on its left knee.

There was a horrible sounding crunch as the axe both snapped bone and severed skin. Gimli pulled his axe back as the monster dropped to its knees. He gave a sharp jab forward, catching the monster in the neck with the flat top of his axe, and he finished it with a strong blow to the neck, effectively decapitating the creature. He turned towards the other two monsters as he pulled a throwing axe out of its holster, letting it fly with a hard throw.

The axe, though it caught one of the beasts in the chest, seemed to do little. Gimli grunted as he lifted his broad-axe. "Alright, then! Come on you!" he challenged as he ran forward. He always _did_ like the close-up fights more.

Hobbits' POV:

Merry nodded to Pippin, and the two came up behind one of the werewolves, which was eating a dead Gondorian. The two 'warriors of the Shire' struck simultaneously, Pippin drawing his sword through the monster's hamstrings and Merry driving his sword into the monster's kidney.

The beast yelped, but the hobbits cut it down with cuts and stabs until the monster was dead. Pippin grinned at Merry. "Just wait 'till the folks at home hear about this!" he laughed. "Come on, let's get another one!"

Boromir's POV:

He stared in horror at the monsters that were tearing through his men like they were stalk of grain being felled by a scythe. _No one should die like that! Especially my men! _His horror turned to anger, and he winded the Horn of Gondor. "Men!" he shouted out. "For your brothers! For your homes! FOR GONDOR!" he bellowed, and he and the men around him all charged as one towards the creatures.

He was the first to reach the monsters. One swiped at him, but he swung hard with his shield, intercepting and disrupting the attack. He gave a mighty down slash, cutting through the monster's ribs, killing it. Boromir shouted again in anger as he took on the next creature.

Aragorn's POV:

He lifted Andúril into a defensive stance as some of the monsters approached, steadily tearing through his men. He would make sure that they paid! As they tore through the last line between him and them, he struck.

He almost laughed at the shocked look on the lycan's face as Andúril nearly cleaved the creature in two, but he was already into the next swing, the weight of Andúril making him strike repeatedly. His attack ripped through another lycan's throat, and Aragorn heard the sound of renewed battle around him. His men had finally started fight back.

He turned towards the ext monster in line, but stopped as the first elven arrow sunk into its chest. Then another, and another again, until the beast had a thicket of arrow shafts covering its chest. It slowly collapsed its eyes now blank in death. Aragorn ignored it as he engaged the next monster. It was time to make the monsters pay!

Donovan's POV:

They wouldn't let up! They repeatedly struck him, tearing his flesh and bruising his body as they continued to pound him, never letting him have the chance to retaliate. But finally he spotted an opening. As one of the lycans tried to punch him, he grabbed its fist, immediately stopping its attack.

"What's the matter," he hissed, taunting the monster. "Didn't expect me to be stronger than your lame ass?" He laughed, the sound hollow and cold. "Well… too…BAD!" he shouted as he slammed his fist against the forearm of the lycan, shattering both bones. He then leapt forward and crushed the lycan's throat with his elbow. It wouldn't live too much longer. "One!" he growled.

He sensed a subtle shift of energy behind him, and without even turning around he pointed his sword behind him, skewering the lycan behind him through the heart. "Two." He leapt forward, nearly flying towards another of the lycans. He easily decapitated it. "Three."

And so he killed them one by one until they all lay dead. He swung his sword arm sharply to the side, flicking the blood from his sword. Sheathing the sword, he turned towards James and his vampires. "Alright James. Time to die," he snapped before he began to make his way forward.


	43. The Final Battle part II

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Donovan stumbled back as the two smaller vampires slammed into him, their light blades leaving small yet painful cuts. Before he could regain his footing, the two biggest struck, each hitting him with their iron staffs, sending him into the air, his ribs screaming in pain from where they were hit. He didn't notice the two blurs flying towards him until they hit him, the two smaller vampires again slashing him with their lightweight swords.

He crashed to the ground, bleeding from a dozen wounds, barely able to stay conscious. "Donovan, the half-vampire that our master so fears. And yet you are nothing. In three minutes of combat, you are already on the ground, defeated," said one of the two small ones. "I am speed, as is my brother. The big ones are strength. We are considered the weakest of all our vampire brethren, yet we can destroy you easily." He gave a cold chuckle. "I think I'll tell you what we will do after we kill you and your precious soldiers and allies. Lord James has told us about your Elenloth. I have already claimed her amongst all the women important to the leaders of your 'Final Alliance'.

Donovan's eyes, which had been squeezed shut in pain, snapped open, everything so much clearer and sharper than before. The one talking didn't notice as he continued to blabber on. "-I think I'll rape her, then drain her dry, and then fuck her corpse one last time!" he shouted gleefully.

The main unit, overall POV:

The vampire's shout was carried on the wind to all those assembled. Aragorn looked at the small figure that was partially hidden by dust clouds blowing across the ground. "Foolish creature," he murmured before grimacing in pain. None of the Fellowship escaped the fight with the werewolves without injury, all but the two hobbits and Gandalf. Somehow the halflings came through unscathed, though it wasn't surprising that the White Wizard came through unharmed.

He himself had been slashed in the arm, Gimli had three broken ribs from when one of the monsters punched him in the chest, Boromir's arm was broken when his shield was nearly torn away from him, and Legolas had been slashed hard across the face.

"How long do ye think the wee vampire has to live?" Gimli asked even as he tried to catch his breath.

Boromir looked up from where his arm was being put into a splint. "I give him one minute."

"Twenty seconds," Legolas wagered in a soft voice.

"Ten!" Gimli countered.

"I say seven," Aragorn said, and everyone started silently counting in their heads.

Donovan's POV:

He stood up, fixing a deadly glare upon the foolish vampire who so chose to threaten HIS wife! Flashes of Helm's Deep came back to him rapidly, and his aura grew as steadily as the rising of the tide until it was far beyond what it had been when he first started fighting the lycans. His idiotic prey noticed this but didn't decide to run away.

"Hah! No matter how powerful you are, I'm still faster tha-!" he was abruptly cut off as a flawless katana cut through his midriff so fast that he didn't even feel the pain. He hadn't even seen Donovan move! Now he was behind him! And before he did actually feel the pain, he was cut in half with a vertical slash.

"You bastard!" screamed the last fast one as he burst forward in a wild charge. Donovan didn't even strike, he simply pointed his sword at the vampire, and his enemy's charge did the rest.

The vampire gave a strangled grunt as the sword stabbed through his throat. He reflexively continued to run until his throat touched the katana's hilt. "No one is faster than me!" Donovan growled as he lifted the sword, the struggling vampire still impaled upon the blade. You are fast, but you are still one step short of shukuchi. I am not hindered by such a problem!" Before another second passed, Donovan pulled his arm back hard, withdrawing his sword from the vampire's neck. But before he could hit the ground, Donovan struck. "Eat a Ryusosen!" he roared as his sword exploded into a blaze of movement, effectively evaporating the vampire in midair.

He heard someone running up behind him, and he turned to see the two strong ones recklessly rushing him. He darted toward them, attacking first. He got underneath the guard of the first one, and easily sheared his face off with a Ryushosen, and the second one fell prey to a Ryutsuisen.

As both bodies fell heavily to the ground, he landed lightly upon the balls of his feet. "Okay, who's next?" he asked lightly. Two lanky vampires equipped with chains that had blades on the ends stepped forward. "Let me guess, dexterity is your suit?"

As an answer, the vampires both struck simultaneously, throwing the blades at him, the chains flying behind the weapons. He ducked the first one and deflected the second before unleashing a Doryusen. But they somehow managed to dodge the rocks and earth that blasted at them. And they then pulled hard on their chains, catching Donovan in the back and leaving terrible gouges. But he used the momentum of the strikes to get up close to them, too close for them to use their weapons. But not too close for him to use his. His blade flashed as he cut them both down.

Ignoring the blood that splashed onto him, he continued towards James, but two of the last four vampires blocked his path. They bore no weapons, instead their hands were covered by heavy steel gauntlets. "So, what are you?"

"We are endurance!" one of them boasted. "None of your previous attacks will pierce through our skin, which is harder than diamond! And even if they did, we can take more punishment than anything you have ever fought before."

Donovan just rolled his eyes tiredly. He still had to fight James, and that fight was probably going to be real unpleasant. He blasted forward, and before even a fraction of a second had passed he was standing in between the two endurance vampires, clutching their faces in an iron grip.

"Do you know what your sin is?" he hissed angrily. Only muffled shouts of surprise were his answer. "Pride. You thought I wouldn't be able to defeat you. You underestimated me and overestimated your own abilities. And you now die because of that." Donovan channeled his kenki out of his palm and through their heads. With two loud pops, the backs of their skulls exploded outward, the air behind them instantly filled with blood, bone fragments, and brain matter.

Their bodies sagged in his grip, and he dropped them without sparing them a second glance. He looked at the last two between him and James. "Okay, I've fought speed, strength, dexterity, and endurance. So I'm guessing you two are intelligence."

"You are right, that-" one said.

"-Is our strong suit," the other finished.

"And we are completely equal," they both said together.

"I am the creator," the first said.

"And I am the destroyer," the other stated.

Donovan just knew that these two would give him a headache. "So one can make, and the other can unmake using heavy-duty telekinetics?"

"Yes-"

"-that is right."

Donovan scoffed. "Well, one of you has to be better than the other."

The two froze, and looked at each other. "I create, which is always harder than destruction, therefore I am stronger."

"I destroy, which is easier to do, therefore I am more efficient."

"Okay, so you both have your individual strengths and abilities. Now, you are both intelligence…which of you is the smartest?"

"I am!" both of them said at the same moment. They glared at each other. And then turned towards Donovan. "We can resolve this conflict-"

"-after we kill you."

Donovan simply raised the two Desert Eagle fifty caliber pistols he had made while the two had been preoccupied. "Unfortunately for you two, I have the ability to make as well. And both these have a wooden bullet loaded into their barrels. Good-bye." He squeezed the two triggers, and both of the vampires received a bullet right through the heart. They died with a look of complete shock on their faces.

And finally, wounded and battle weary, Donovan turned towards James, who had a confident look on his face, the One Ring openly displayed upon his ring finger. "So, Donovan, finally we meet again. Don't bore me." They both burst forward in a deadly charge, and with a clash of steel they locked blades, and the final battle finally began.


	44. The Final Battle part III

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Main Unit, overall POV; Date and Time unknown:

The members of the Fellowship who had made the bet stared at the bodies of the vampires in shock, even as Donovan began to fight James. "Was the bet for how long the small vampire was going to live after insulting Donovan, for the length of time the first four vampires lived, or the overall battle with the ten vampires?" Boromir asked.

"I know what you mean," Aragorn said in an awestruck voice. "If it was the small vampire, I won. The first four were defeated halfway between Gimli's and Legolas's guesses, and all of them were killed in about a minute."

Legolas cleared his throat softly. "I think it is more important to concentrate on the fight taking place. After all, if Donovan loses, we all will die. If he wins, then who knows what will happen?"

Donovan's POV; Date and Time unknown:

Donovan grunted as he was thrown through the air by the force of James's parry. But even as he landed, he charged forward, letting loose a Kuzu-Ryusen. His sword struck all nine vital points upon James's body simultaneously, but the new Dark Lord didn't even stumble back. _Cerul! I might need some help!_

And suddenly James brought his hand up and flicked Donovan in the forehead. Donovan gasped in shock as his head snapped back as though he had been shot in the head, sending his body crashing to the ground. He flipped back up onto his feet, but staggered as the force of even that tiny blow roared through his head.

"Come on, Donovan!" James laughed. "You know my weakness, yet not one of your attacks has been aimed at it. Are you foolish enough to believe that you can take me on without removing the ring?"

"Fool!" Donovan hissed angrily.

"Oops! Did I just mention my weakness out loud?" James mocked. "Oh well, I guess I should go to my more powerful form." Donovan could only watch with shock as James grew to a size that was comparable to that of Sauron's in the beginning of the Fellowship of the Ring. And his sword grew into a dai-katana (basically a greatsword amongst katanas, a full six feet in length).

Donovan dropped to his knees, almost letting go of his sword as despair hit him full force. _I can't win. Not when he is this powerful. _Images of Elenloth flickered through his mind, bringing tears to his eyes. _I'm so sorry, Elenloth. It looks like I will break my promise to you after all._ He failed her, he failed his daughter, and he failed everyone else in Arda. But then another wave of determination set in. _I may die, but I will not die alone!_

"Die, you bastard!" he screamed as he ran as fast as he could, rushing towards James, but all the Dark Lord did was roll his eyes as though bored. When he was within striking distance, James struck, and it was only Donovan ducking at the last second that saved his life. James completed his swing, but he had overstepped himself, now he was exposed. But his eyes still did not look afraid!

Donovan roared as he swung hard and fast. There was a clang, and James bellowed in pain as his dai-katana dropped to the ground. He held up his now fingerless right hand and looked at it with horror. But then his look of horror turned into a maniacal grin, and Donovan leapt back, startled.

James didn't implode or explode; instead he shrunk back down to his regular size, his hand now with fingers again. He stepped over the One Ring, which lay at his feet. "I'm not Sauron, Donovan. No, I didn't put any of my power into the ring, it was just a tool to kill Sauron and take over his lands. And now you have to kill me when I am not protected by-"

He was cut off as Donovan swung in a horizontal line, and his kenki blasted out of his katana and flew straight for James. But all James did was raise his hand and absorb the blow. "How about we _not_ use our auras to fight, hmm?" he said as he formed a large ball of his own energy and sent it flying at Donovan.

The energy ball was too big for Donovan to dodge, so he instead crossed his arms in front of him, and took the blow head on. Despite the fact that he had tried to prepare for the impact, nothing could have prevented the effects of the attack. Donovan flew through the air to land one hundred feet from where he had started.

He hit the ground hard, rolling with no control, his limbs taking the brunt of the fall. But eventually he skidded to a halt, and could do nothing but cough weakly. He had kept his sword in his grasp, not that it mattered…he was too tired to even stand up.

As he tried to gather his strength, he was barely aware of James coming closer to him. He switched his sword to his left hand as he pushed himself off the ground. Maybe he had to go to an attack from a different style to win.

When James was within range, Donovan whirled hard, thrusting as hard and fast as he could with his left arm. Blood sprayed into the air, and at first Donovan thought that he had scored a hit. But the pain hit him, emanating from his right shoulder. He looked down, and shuddered in shock when he finally saw what caused the pain.

James had twisted to dodge Donovan's attack, and had also stabbed into Donovan's shoulder with his _fingers_. Donovan shouted out in pain as James spread his fingers apart, straining the already large wound. "The Gatotsu Zero-shiki, eh? Pretty impressive attack, I didn't even know that you could do that move. And considering that that attack can tear a man in half at the waist after you stab him in the chest with it, I'm particularly lucky it didn't make contact."

Donovan stumbled back as James shoved with his left hand, finally removing his fingers from his shoulder. He looked up, glaring at James with all the hatred he felt for the vampire standing before him. He jumped back, and then charged forward with all speed available to him. "Die!" he shouted just as he sheathed and then drew as an attack. The Shunten-satsu, 'Instant Heaven Kill', an attack that will kill its target before he ever had the chance to feel the pain.

But even though he was moving too fast to be seen, James dropped his hand, and as the attack was about to hit him, he simply caught the blade between two fingers, halting it. And as Donovan stared at James with unmistakable shock and despair, he noticed Cerul flying towards them on silent wings. He only had to live for a few more seconds.

His attention was drawn to James as the vampire made himself a KaBar, and before Donovan could move he slashed upwards in a vertical line, catching him in the face, leaving a cut that extended from Donovan's jaw to his scalp line. It just narrowly passed over his right eye, missing it by mere millimeters.

The face of the blow knocked Donovan back. He fell onto his backside, just barely holding onto his sword. He painfully got onto his knees, and looked up at James, who was approaching him. Closing his eye because of the blood flowing into and past it, he slumped his shoulders in defeat.

"Alright, James, you've won!" he cried. "Just kill me and get it over with. But before I die, I have one last thing to say. Remember that dragon you made in Isengard?" _Cerul, roar NOW!_

The dragon, which had managed to get one hundred feet away from Donovan and James, happily complied, throwing as much anger and wrath as she could into that one bellow. And as James looked behind him in shocked surprise, Donovan leaped forward, plunging his sword towards James's chest. And this time, he connected.

His sword stabbed deep into James's chest, piercing his heart. The vampire brought his attention away from Cerul and towards Donovan in a heartbeat, but it was already too late for him. Donovan withdrew his sword, and then swung it horizontally, decapitating James. He struck again and again, until James no longer resembled the vampire he once was.

As Donovan turned and stumbled away from his enemy's ruined body, he nodded to Cerul. "Flame him," he said hoarsely, the fight's wounds finally catching up to him. As he neared the ring, a bright blue light flared up from behind, casting his shadow upon the ground in front of him. He bent down as the blue flames died down, and picked up the ring, ignoring the usual promises of grandeur and power it sent forth.

He dropped it into his pocket, and turned towards the allied host behind him, which many of its members were running towards him. He waited until the Fellowship finally reached him, at least those that could. Gimli had to stay behind because of the nature of his wounds, Donovan found out.

Donovan smirked painfully at Legolas. "Well, at least I'm not the only one to get struck in the face. Think yours will scar?"

Legolas scoffed. "Undoubtedly, but the scars will be fairly light, and will disappear before I am three thousand years old. Your scar will be many times worse."

Gandalf cleared his throat. "Donovan, the One Ring is in your pocket."

Donovan gave Gandalf a surprised look. "Really? I didn't know that!" he said as sarcastically as he could. Gandalf just sighed and shook his head. "Don't worry; I'm heading right for Mount Doom to destroy it. I'll take one of my sergeants, David Âmul, to make sure that the job is done. You get to make sure that everyone is out of Mordor and heading home. I'll see you in a few."

Fifteen minutes later; Mount Doom, Sergeant David Âmul's POV:

He paced in front of the gates leading to the belly of the fiery mountain nervously. Finally he snapped. "Dammit!" he hissed. He turned towards Cerul, who had been watching him pace with obvious amusement in her eyes. "It's been five minutes! It shouldn't take that long, I'm going in."

He ran through the ancient portal and down a dark corridor, an orange and red glow growing more pronounced with each step. Finally he broke out into the main chamber. Sulfurous fumes whirled about his body, and violent updrafts tugged at his body as he walked down a narrow bridge leading to the main platform.

Finally he spotted Donovan standing at the far edge of the platform, staring at something he held in his palm. David could tell that something was wrong, and his hand dropped to the pistol holstered at his side. "My Lord!" he shouted loudly, and Donovan turned towards him slowly, never tearing his gaze from the thing in his hand. It was the One Ring. "Sir! Throw the ring into the fire!"

Donovan finally looked up, and David reflexively took a step back from the look in the half-vampire's eyes. "I won't," Donovan said with a hollow voice. "I will instead take it as my own."

David dropped to one knee as he drew his pistol. He aimed it at Donovan, drawing a steady bead upon his chest. "Sir, I did not fight for almost _six years_ to hear that bullshit answer. Throw the ring in, or I will shoot you myself."

Donovan raised his arm, and a massive pistol appeared in his hand. He lifted it to point it at David, who flinched at the size of the weapon. "I'll shoot you first."

David's finger tightened slightly on the trigger. "Sir, what about the happiness you said we deserved? I have a family to return to! I won't die here, I refuse to!"

"I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice in the matter, sergeant."

"And what about Elenloth, and your daughter? If you take that ring, you will never be able to be with them again."

Donovan's POV:

_But…but if I take the ring, then I can make them understand!_ "I would make them be with me!" he snapped, staring down his sergeant while a war raged inside of him.

He saw his sergeant scoff derisively. "That's a fucking lie, and you know it! Throw the ring in, and we can all go home."

Donovan froze as the conflict inside began to wage full-out war. _I want to see my wife and child again!_

'_Ah, but I can help you make them understand! You will rule this world, and make things the way they should be!'_

_But…I don't…want to rule the world. I want to live a quiet life, away from the eyes of others._

'_You are too weak to take me then! I can make you stronger then all else, and you will pass even James's abilities-'_ and then, unbidden, came the vision of himself that he had seen in Lorien. Him as the traitor of all living things. And then he saw the vision where he was with Elenloth and Elanariel, truly happy for the first time since Mary died. Without a moment's hesitation, he threw the ring away from him and out into the chasm. Less then a minute later, there was a rumble as the ring was destroyed, and he turned towards David. "Let's go home," he said in a bone weary voice.


	45. Finally, It Is Over

**AN- Finally, the last chapter. At the time of my writing this, I've already completed the epilogue. Anyway, I again ask that you PLEASE review this story, it would really make my day.**

**Read, enjoy and PLEASE REVIEW!**

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Donovan wearily strode towards Minas Tirith, the White City finally in view. It was July fifth, a full three weeks after James had died and the ring had been destroyed. Three weeks of painfully slow recovery and three weeks of logistical nightmare. Every allied soldier had to be counted for and discharged, and his equipment collected. When the last volunteer and conscript had finally headed towards home, there was a mountain of rifles, whether they were of orc or Durvagorian origin. The only people keeping the modern weapons were his own soldiers.

And the weapons that weren't kept had to be disposed of. Which involved a very large pit and enough explosives to wipe a Mumakil off the face of the earth. Needless to say it was a very impressive explosion. But the result of having to make that much explosives made him extremely tired, as had simply healing from the final fight. He was going to have odd finger-shaped scars in his right shoulder, not to mention all the little scars he got during the fight with James and his minions before him.

And, not surprisingly, he hadn't even gotten much stronger as a result of the fight. This wasn't like an RPG game where he got experience for every kill he made. No, in fact he was slightly weaker. The energy he expended while fighting James made his Morgul wound slightly worse, and he hadn't stopped feeling weary ever since the battle's end. Hopefully after a good night's rest, he would be none for the worse.

He looked behind him, at all of his soldiers. For the first time in close to two years they were finally a whole unit. Many were bandaged heavily enough that they were obviously wounded fairly seriously. Some were on stretchers, and there were quite a few holes in the ranks where the Durvagorians and Ithilien Rangers who had fallen in the land of shadow should have been standing.

He looked ahead at the city with a tired smirk. His was the last unit returning. He had roughly eight hundred left of one thousand, not including the beasts of burden that either carried or towed the heavier weapon, like the cannons and the cannon shells. They were all undoubtedly tired, hungry, thirsty, dirty, and wounded, whether it be emotionally or physically. And they all looked it, their clothes covered with dirt, ash, and sweat, their bodies visibly worn out and wounded, their eyes haunted. Yet if anything attacked them, they could probably defeat it without overdue trouble. They had become literally the best soldiers on the face of Arda. Maybe not the elves, of course, but they could give the firstborn a run for their money.

But they were the last returning. All but the nobles and their personal guard had already gone home, and the nobles had gone to the White City. He said that he would take the rear guard, afterall his men were infantry, and most everyone else had horses, especially among the nobles.

He couldn't wait until he could finally see his wife and child again. But there were _still_ matters that had to be taken care of. Namely the still brewing coup. He knew how to take it out, and would probably spring his plan into action tomorrow morning. But for now, he wanted to be with his family.

July 5th, 14:37; Minas Tirith, Elenloth's POV:

Elenloth sat in her quarters, well…her and Donovan's quarters. She was playing a game with Elanariel, though her cheerful expression was just a façade. King Elessar, weird though it was to think of her friend by that title, had been back for some two days, and Donovan still had yet to return.

For five years he had been gone, only able to come back every so often, as the situation allowed. Though five years was just the blink of an eye for an elf, five years when your loved one is at war is no small amount of time. At least while everyone was away at war she had Arwen and Galadriel to talk to. They both had loved ones fighting. But now their husbands were back, and Elenloth was alone again, except for her daughter. No one could take Elana away from her.

With no forewarning, horns blew loudly from the Tower of the Guard. But they were not alerting the city to danger…they were horns of welcoming. "Naneth, does that mean adar is home now?" Elanariel asked in her soft voice. The little girl was almost as developed as a human five-year-old, only with more proficiency in speaking. Soon she would stop her growth spurt, and her form would begin to change slowly. Just like a normal elven child. It was odd how she didn't get any of her growing characteristics from her vampire and human side. Or maybe she had, but they weren't showing yet.

"Yes, rél, that means that your ada is home," she said, adding on a silent, _I hope. _"Come, shall we go greet him?"

July 5th, 14:45; Just inside Minas Tirith, Donovan's POV:

"-and get those guns stowed away!" he shouted to the artillery crews. _Finally! Home at last!_ He had already pulled off his field pack, and was now removing his cap and jacket, glad to finally have the unnecessary clothing off. The summer heat was hard for even him to ignore. And, oh gods! He _so_ couldn't wait until he had the chance to take a decent bath. He hadn't smelled _this_ bad since the eighteenth century.

He was surprised though…normally Elen and Elanariel would have already been waiting for him. Did they not hear the horns, or were they missing for other reasons? His answer was answered in the next moment as a little girl shouted out in joy. "Daddy!"

July 5th, 14:50; Just inside Minas Tirith, Elenloth's POV:

Watching them was heart touching, there was no other description. Elanariel left her side and sprinted (it was almost scary how fast the girl could already move) to her father. She ignored the sunlight striking her flesh, which she ordinarily openly detested.

Donovan, upon hearing Elana call out, turned to meet her, crouching down and holding his arms wide open for her. The little perelleth needed no further prompting as she happily giggled as she ran towards her father. She jumped into his arms, and he scooped her up as he rose, holding her tightly to him. Elen felt a flood of warmth between their bond, and she noticed the weary and happy tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes. He brought his eyes down upon her, and smiled widely. "I'm home," he mouthed.

July 6th, 00:03; Donovan's Family Quarters, Donovan's POV:

The warmth of her skin against his heated him all the way to his soul. He had taken a bath at the first moment he could, and spent the rest of the day with his family, catching up on Elanariel's missed childhood. And now he was with his wife in bed.

But they weren't doing anything in the least bit sexual. Sure, they were both only clothed with the bare necessities, but the truth was that Donovan was _tired_. His stamina didn't last forever, even as a half-vampire. He had been through so much that he was content to simply lie cuddling his wife. She was spooned against him, his head buried in her hair as he calmly breathed in and out, inhaling her scent. She was calmly and quietly singing, soothing his soul even further.

But she stopped, and after a short while, she slightly shifted, catching his attention. "Elen?" he mumbled sleepily.

"Something…is going to happen tomorrow, isn't it?" she asked sadly.

Donovan sighed. He should have seen this one coming. "Honey, there are a lot of bad people out there, and some of them are in my unit. Remember our first time? How Matt showed up the next morning? I'm finally going to take care of the coup."

Elen stiffened momentarily. Then she relaxed, snuggling slightly closer. "I understand. Just please, be careful. I couldn't endure without you."

"I know, sweetie, I know," he whispered softly into her hair. Within minutes, both were asleep, him holding her close to him. They both got the first good night of sleep since the start of the Mordor invasion.

July 6th, 06:37; Adra's household, Sergeant David Âmul's POV:

He knew she was watching him, but he didn't care at that point in time. Something was wrong, he could feel it. Something was going to happen today, he just knew it. The first clue was that Donovan had ordered an assembly of all the men. The radio message that had come in at 06:15 had said the assembly was for awarding the men for their hard work, but there was something wrong. He was already dressed in his uniform; it had been washed by Adra the night before, who was still watching him silently. He had told her that it wasn't necessary, as all the uniforms of the entire army had been washed. She had also let him use her bath, something he was grateful for. The waiting lines in front of the public bathing houses were immensely long, and it would've taken forever to actually gotten a bath, and no doubt it would have been a very short one.

He slid a clip into his .45 and pulled the slide back before releasing it with a fairly loud sounding _chack_! He then ejected the clip, loading another round into it before returning it to its rightful position in the pistol. Now he had eight shots loaded instead of the usual seven. He prayed that he wouldn't have to use any of them.

Adra nervously fiddled with something that had been set over the hearth before she spoke. "Should I worry?" she asked so softly that David almost thought that he hadn't heard it.

"No," he said brusquely, so as to hide the fact that he was lying.

"David," the tone in her voice was ominous. "I let you sleep in my house. I believe that I have a right to know."

David sighed. She was right, after all. He had slept rather comfortably on the floor of her kitchen, with the aide of his sleeping roll and sleeping bag. As far away from the hearth as possible because after Mordor he hated heat, but that was beside the point. The point was that she had shown him kindness. He could at least do the same. "There…have been whispers that there are those in the Army that despise Donovan. I think he wishes to address that. So I ask that you stay here for today. The entire populace was called out, but I would feel much better if you were here, safe."

He let a go the tense breath he had been holding after Adra nodded. Just please, do come back. Hana loves you so much, as do all the children."

David got up and walked to the door, picking up the rest of the gear from where it stood by the door. He looked back at her solemnly, showing his gratitude and, dare he say it, deeper feelings he felt towards this human woman. "Are they the only ones?" he asked quietly before he left the house and headed towards the Pelennor Fields.

July 6th, 08:00; Pelennor Fields, Donovan's POV:

He stood on the makeshift podium all by himself, looking over his Army, which was standing at parade rest. Almost completely surrounding them was all the Gondorian populace which had been called out. All the captains and lords of the allied host still remaining were standing either in front of or to the side of the podium. Aragorn stood next to Arwen, which was beneficial to Donovan.

He stepped forward slightly, catching the attention of everyone present. "I called you here today!" he called out loudly enough for even those people out in the farthest reaches of the crowds to hear him. "I called you here so that I might give my soldiers their…due rewards."

He pulled out the list that Matt had made for him. "Captain Kenneth Grosh, please step forward. Sergeants Sloiuga, Dhaub, and Naadar, please step forward." When they did, he smiled fatherly at them, easily seeing the hate in their eyes. "You are the few officers that I have never properly rewarded. Now is your time."

Evidently they somehow felt the air become heavier with his own anger, though he kept it hidden as well as possible. They tensed up even as Grosh spoke, trying to save his position. "My lord, long have we worked for you…I am delighted to hear of our final rewarding."

_Oh yes, it will be final alright._ "My lord and king Aragorn. Might I introduce the men who were planning to take your city, kill you, and rape Arwen for their own pleasure?" he said, his voice swelling over all that were assembled. There was dead silence. "Of course, I might be wrong…"

Grosh drew his pistol as quickly as he could, aiming straight for Donovan. "King Elessar, it is this fiend who lies!" he cried desperately.

Donovan chuckled darkly, the sound promising the four exactly what they were getting themselves into. "Then pull the trigger," he hissed through his expanding fangs. He ignored the familiar painful itching. Oh, he was going to enjoy this! "If your pistol works, then I am guilty. If it fails you, then I will get to claim what I _gave_ you…your life!"

There was a sharp click. Then another and another as Grosh desperately pulled the trigger of his pistol. Donovan growled heavily. "You lose," he sneered. Grosh didn't even have time to scream. But the crowd did as Donovan suddenly disappeared and reappeared in front of Grosh, his eyes glowing a feral red.

The only sound was that of a fist smacking flesh as Donovan unleashed a flurry of blows, covering Grosh's torso with the attacks. Grosh stared at him with shock and fear before the pain hit him. He tried to scream, but all that came out of his mouth was brackish blood. "I just evaporated all the organs in your torso. I hope you enjoy the pain," he said only loud enough for Grosh to hear.

There was a loud shout from one of the three sergeants, and they tried to rush him, but he struck faster than any of the eyes watching him could follow. His sword, which had been hanging at his side like always, was out and then sheathed again before the three had even follow gotten into their movements. The attack caused their heads to roll off their shoulders, their necks cleanly cleaved through. Donovan walked back up to the podium, nodding slightly towards Elenloth. She gave him a sad look from where she sat next to Galadriel in return. He saw also the look of fury burning in Aragorn's eyes. Good, that anger was useful.

He looked over the rest of the army, studying the looks of awe, shock, anger, and fear that he was getting from them. "I HAVE WITH ME FORTY-NINE OTHER NAMES. THE NAMES OF THOSE WHO WERE DIRECTLY INVOLVED WITH THIS COUP."

He then shifted his attention over his men instead of talking to everyone assembled. The crowds were already smelling of anger over fear. This was also quite good. "If you come forward, then your superiors will judge you fairly. If I have to call you out, I will give you to the Gondorians."

There was a flurry of movement from 1st Battalion, 3rd Company as Corporal Durgaz, the only traitor from that unit, drew his pistol and aimed towards Donovan. There were two loud pistol shots, and Donovan watched impassively as Durgaz collapsed, clutching his chest. David Âmul was aiming his pistol at Durgaz, and he had fired without hesitation. But then the realization of his actions came over David, Donovan could tell, for the man's face transformed into shock and horror. But before long, his face returned to the impassive face of a soldier. Donovan smirked in triumph as David aimed carefully and put a bullet into the head of his treacherous Corporal, making sure he didn't get back up.

"Forty-eight!"

And so they started coming forward then, and before long thirty of them had stood forlornly at the head of the army, their heads bowed in shameful anger. But there were still eighteen who wished to be saved by the pity and generosity of the Gondorians. _Well, that won't do, now will it?_

"So!" he shouted loudly. "You cowards who hide amongst the ranks of real men wish to live? Well, I must tell your entire story to your condemners. My Gondorian allies! Those eighteen left were involved in a plot to take your city and make it a second Minas Morgul. They would use my men, my INNOCENT men to destroy you! And whence they were done taking your city, they would have raped Arwen, your new queen, again, and again, and again until their terrible thirsts for flesh were quenched! Would you let them do that to your beloved and new queen?"

Now they only smelt of pure anger. "**_NO!_**" the crowd roared.

"And what is the only penalty for such foul crimes?"

"**_DEATH!_**"

And his army now also smelt of anger. They would have been so used in such a manner as to destroy an innocent city? Many were gripping the handles of their melee weapons in obvious fury.

"Donovan," Aragorn said quietly with barely suppressed anger. "This is my wife they spoke of taking. I assure you, these men won't live longer then an hour."

And so the names were read. Only seven of the doomed men even made it out of the army formation, their lives ended with the swift strike of an angry Durvagorian. And by the end of the week, none of the treacherous was left alive.

Only one person would ever know of the utter sadness and sense of failure Donovan truly felt. Elenloth, his wife, held him for many nights after the last of the traitors were killed as he cried, lamenting the fact that he had to kill them in such an obvious and shameful manner. But finally, it was over. Oh, gods, it was _finally_ over!


	46. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

The Durvagorian Army: After the fateful and failed coup of July 6th (a day that would always be one of shame for the faithful Durvagorians) the soldiers were named the First Elite Army of Gondor, and were unofficially referred to as Elessar's Fist. Every single future engagement that Gondor or Rohan fought in was greatly aided by these men. They also helped other peoples, such as the Halflings of the Shire. The little people were attacked by a goblin army, but since no man was allowed in their lands, they instead called in any full blooded Durvagorian soldier to come to their aid. For the Durvagorians were _not_ of the race of man, no matter how closely they resembled them. With their help, the Hobbits routed the goblins, and were not bothered from outside forces from that point forward.

The Durvagorian Army lasted to the end of Gondor, and even survived that, in some respects. At first their numbers stayed at only one thousand, but eventually their numbers grew. The most Durvagorian soldiers ever to serve at one time was a number slightly over five thousand. And Donovan, who remained the Army's leader until his death, never had more then one thousand bear modern weapons. And the Army itself was at times fragmented. Sometimes here, sometimes there, it was at times so widely spread that Sergeants of different units would not speak to each other for months.

But one unit was always stationed in one area for the duration of the Durvagorian Army. What used to be 1st Battalion, 3rd Company became the 1st Elite Guard. Its first commander, David Âmul, was promoted from Sergeant to Captain, officially making him minor nobility. Not that he really cared.

Elenloth and Donovan: After their (human ceremony) marriage in the official year of FO 1, Donovan moved his family out of Minas Tirith and into Northern Ithilien. After all that he did for Gondor, Aragorn gave him the title of Prince Donovan Cerridwen. Donovan, after one day of trying to maintain his position in society, gave up and kept to himself, his men, and his family. He still kept the title. He would have only two children with Elenloth: Elanariel and Durandir. Both would become rather influential in their own time.

In the end, Donovan kept his promise. After a long and prosperous time with Elenloth, he survived unto his son's ceremony of adulthood. After one hundred sixty years of pushing his dying body with his willpower, Donovan finally gave into death's calling just two days after his son became an adult. Donovan was eight hundred-four at the time of his death. Elenloth passed over the Sea less then a year after that. She left at the age of three thousand seventy-six.

Elanariel: An independent young woman, she learned expert swordsmanship from her father. She left home at the age of fifty to write out her own story, hoping to surpass even her father in ability and fame. She was always smart, though a little hotheaded at times. And she was physically matured enough at fifty to become independent, though she was all legs and arms, with barely any feminine qualities about her figure. She returned after fifty years had passed, and had inherited most of her mother's beauty. Supposedly her beauty was so potent that she caught the eyes of a certain Eryn Lasgalen Prince. Though they never openly admitted their love, Legolas and Elanariel did cross over the Sea together with Gimli. Legend has it that he married her in Valinor.

Durandir: Named after his father's first Middle Earth name, Durandir was very proud. Proud to the point where he actually fought his father for the title of the strongest. He was good with both gun and blade, but he hadn't lasted seven minutes. After all, he hadn't developed any magical abilities beyond being able to sense auras and using kenki. Donovan's repertoire was much more diverse than that.

Durandir was also often jealous of his older sister. She could use the making power, and he hated having to go beg from her for more ammo for his trademark .45 caliber Longslide Hardballers. Or, at least what he viewed as begging. After hearing about being able to use another vampire's power after drinking their blood, he tried for some four years to drink Elana's blood. Only after she nearly killed him did he stop his foolish quest.

That was another thing that differed between the siblings. Durandir drank blood as his father did, while Elana never drank another being's blood. Durandir did have one love in his life: Celebrian, the second daughter born of King Elessar and Queen Arwen. They were even more discreet about it than Legolas and Elana were about their relationship. None found out, though Arwen and Aragorn were curious as to why their daughter had suddenly chosen to follow her elven destiny rather then her human one, like she had originally planned. She became pregnant while still unmarried, and was told to become bound to the man whose child she bore. Therefore Celebrian and Durandir secretly wed under their parents' watchful eyes. It was obvious that he did love her. Yet their love was doomed to fail. When Durandir was nigh but one hundred seventy-six, he died while engaging battle against the remnants of the Mordor forces still using modern weapons. Celebrian was heartbroken, yet pushed on, raising her child to be of better mind and discipline then the child's father had. The child, a boy, was named Estel.

Matthiol: Matthiol never took a wife nor a lover. He was quoted having said 'If I wanted a wife, I'd ask Donovan to issue me one.' His entire life was a military career, and his life ended while defending the Anduin River crossing at Osgiliath after a surprise attack by the more powerful of Gondor's enemies. His last words were: 'I have not yet failed you, old friend. Men, carry the fight on, pour it into them, we have not yet lost. Reinforcements will come soon…even now, I have no regrets. Thank you, Donovan.' He was eighty seven, getting far on in his years, for the Durvagorians had the same life expectancy as normal humans.

The unit held for two weeks while surrounded by an army that outnumbered them twenty-to-one. When finally relieved by allied forces, they still had his body protected as best they could. Hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers and their families showed up for the funeral of one of the best commanders the Durvagorians would ever have.

David Âmul: Later Captain of the 1st Elite Guard, also named the Black Guard for their black equipment only policy. They had nothing on them that wasn't black in color. Even the wooden stocks of their ceremonial M14s were black oak. They always had their faces completely covered, and were armored head-to-toe. Many an assassin and enemy fell to their fierce defenses. After all, the Black Guard was the personal bodyguard of the royal family. They were beyond elite, extremely skilled in both marksmanship and martial combat. One of them could easily take down twenty orcs by him or herself.

Going onto his civilian life, he immediately started courting Adra once the war was over. They both said that they wanted to take things slowly. They were married by the end of two weeks. Adra's children were delighted, of course, Hana especially. Adra gave birth to three more children while married to David, all of them strong though sometimes a little blunt with their thoughts and emotions. When David retired from the Durvagorian military, he went into the bakery business. His sourdough bread, especially when fried in vats of boiling pig fat, was said to be the best in any Gondor tributary.

Megan Dhurum: Permanently blinded, she married George Sriz, who remained in the Durvagorian Sniper Corps. She opened a school in a forest along the White Mountains just north of Minas Tirith. It was a school and home for disabled kids, as well as orphans with no other place to go. Being a sniper, Megan was quite good at achieving serenity, something she made sure to pass onto her 'children'. She did have four children with George, two female and two male. They, as well as all the orphans who were never adopted, joined the Durvagorian Army. They were mostly snipers because of what they learned under Megan's tutelage.

Final Notes: With Donovan's and Durandir's deaths and Elana's passing over the sea, there wasn't anyone left in Arda with sufficient vampire blood to claim that title. With either the deaths or passing of the remaining Fellowship, the old fear and hatred of vampires returned, and the history of those few was erased. Sauron was defeated when the hobbits Frodo and Sam completed their quest. It wasn't until Gondor was finally ended that all records of the Durvagorian army and the vampires could be erased.

When J.R.R. Tolkein found the histories of Middle Earth and wrote his books (a fascinating blend of fiction and history), he had no ideas that vampires like Donovan had existed. But notes of their existence survived through the careful plots of the remaining Durvagorians. These notes were found, and now I felt that I had to tell their story to the world in the best way I could. And so now you readers finally know the truth. The truth of the Battle for Arda, and the Dark Wanderer.


End file.
